' 


- ': •  •'    I )' ! < ! » ! t S ! c ! < S ! c J < I « ! t ! < ' •  v  •'  ;  ' *"  ;  M  •• ';  •  ••• ,  \. :  •. \  • ' . ; . ; . ' . ;  -.'  > ;  - 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


-uu 


POEMS 


OP 


TWO    FKIENDS. 


COLUMBUS: 

FOLLETT,    FOSTER    AND    COMPANY. 

1860. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  th«  year  1869, 

BT  IOLLBTT,  FOSTER  k  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  Ohio. 


5-3 


PREFACE. 


IT  may  be  that  the  Tenderness  which  can- 
not leave  these  poor  Children  of  the  Heart 
to  generous  Oblivion,  is  not  wise.  There  is 
the  Doubt. 

Gracious  Reader  I  ( approached  with  the 
reverent  Affection  due  to  the  Reader  of  a 
first  Book),  solve  us  the  Doubt. 


M648'771 


CONTENTS. 


PICK 

The  Morning  Street ,  1 

Below  and  Above 3 

The  Golden  Hand 4 

Ghosts 6 

The  Forgotten  Well 8 

Moonrise 10 

Dream-World , 11 

Parting 12 

Postscript 13 

Caged  Birds 14 

In  the  Orchard 15 

ToaChild 17 

The  Night  Train : 18 

Rose 19 

The  Spring 20 

The  Poet's  Bird 21 

The  Lost  Songs 22 


V  CONTENTS. 

\ 

PACK 

Sonnet 24 

A  Glad  September  Morning 25 

The  Week 26 

A  Parting 27 

If 29 

The  Old  Piano's  Players 30 

The  Forgotten  Street 32 

Cousins  Belle  and  Kittie 35 

Genius  Loci 36 

Pilgrims 38 

The  Bouquet 39 

The  Letter  with  a  Rose-Leaf 40 

Sabbath  Evening  after  a  Shower 41 

The  Yellow  Leaf  in  the  Poet's  Book 42 

Frost-Bloom 44 

Dew 46 

Fallen  Leaves 47 

The  Trundle-Bed 49 

Anonymous 50 

The  Buried  Organ 52 

«  To " 54 

From  the  Cradle 56 

Sundown 58 

The  Harvest-Spring 60 

The  Pioneer  Chimney 62 


CONTENTS.  VII 

PACK 

Faith 66 

Prairie-Fires 67 

The  Church  Path 70 

A  Poet's  Wreathing 74 

The  Letter  Chest 75 

la  March 77 

The  Western  Pioneer. . ,  ...  79 


II. 

Prelude 83 

The  Movers 85 

The  Old  Bouquet 90 

Through  the  Meadow 92 

Gone 93 

The  Throstle 94 

The  Autumn-Land 95 

All  Four 97 

Thistles 99 

The  Mysteries 101 

The  Shepherd 102 

The  Sarcastic  Fair 103 

Evening  Voices 104 

The  Heaven-Wreath 106 

Liebeswonne  . .  .  108 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PACK 
The  Violets 109 

Sonnet 110 

Death  of  May Ill 

Compliment 113 

Drifting  Away 114 

Dead 116 

Spring 118 

The  Caged  Robin 119 

The  Doubt 121 

The  Thorn 122 

Drowned 123 

Under  the  Locusts 124 

Midnight  Rain 125 

The  Bird 127 

The  Fisher-Maiden 128 

Words  of  Warning 129 

The  Straw  Hat 131 

"Sir  Philip  Sidney" 132 


JOHN   J.   PIATT. 


POEMS. 


THE   MORNING   STREET. 

I  WALK  alone  the  Morning  Street, 
Filled  with  the  silence  strange  and  sweet ; 
All  seems  as  lone,  as  still,  as  dead, 
As  if,  unnumbered,  years  had  fled, 
Letting  the  noisy  Babel  be 
Without  a  breath — a  memory  ! 
The  light  wind  walks  with  me,  alone, 
Where  the  hot  day  like  flame  was  blown, 
Where  the  wheels  roared  and  dust  was  beat ; 
The  dew  is  in  the  Morning  Street. 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 
Along  this  mighty  corridor 
While  the  noon  flames  ?  the  hurrying  crowd 
Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud  ? 
The  myriad  faces  ?  hearts  that  beat 
No  more  in  the  deserted  street? — 
Those  footsteps,  in  their  dream-land  maze, 
Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days ; 


THE   MORNING    STREET. 

Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 
In  morning  suns  long  set  in  tears ; 
Those  hearts — far  in  the  Past  they  beat — 
Are  singing  in  their  Morning  Street. 

A  city  'gainst  the  world's  gray  Prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert,  far  from  Time, 
Where  noiseless  Ages,  gliding  through, 
Have  only  sifted  sands  and  dew  — 
Yet  still  a  marble  hand  of  man 
Lying  on  all  the  haunted  plan ; 
The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Beating  the  marble  breast  of  Art  — 
Were  not  more  lone  to  one  who  first 
Upon  its  giant  silence  burst, 
Than  this  strange  quiet,  where  the  tide 
Of  life,  upheaved  on  either  side, 
Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  human  waves  the  Morning  Street. 

Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 
Pours  through  this  charmed  solitude ; 
All  silent  now,  this  Memnon-stone 
Will  murmur  to  the  rising  sun  ; 
The  busy  life  this  vein  shall  beat  — 
The  rush  of  wheels,  the  swarm  of  feet ; 
The  Arachne-threads  of  Purpose  stream, 
Unseen,  within  the  morning  gleam  ; 


BELOW  AND    ABOVE. 


The  Life  will  move,  the  Death  be  plain ; 
The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train 
Together  in  the  crowd  will  meet, 
And  pass  within  the  Morning  Street. 


BELOW  AND  ABOVE. 

"Ix  might  have  been:"  To  the  heart's  deeps  are  cast 

Tkose  slow,  sad  words.     To  funeral  trains  they  move 
Within  the  soul.    The  deserts  we  have  passed 
We  cross  again  —  from  Eden-dreams  of  Love  ! 

"  It  might  have  been,"  we  say,  whene'er  we  give 

Into  the  grave  our  coffin  silently ; 
But  the  sad  tears  some  unknown  gleam  receive  — 
We  lift  our  eyes  and  say,  "  It  still  may  be." 


THE    GOLDEN   HAND. 


THE    GOLDEN    HAND. 

FROM  out  the  city's  heat  and  dust 
A  Golden  Hand  is  ever  thrust ; 
Uplifting  from  a  spire  on  high, 
A  golden  finger  in  the  sky. 

I  see  it  when  the  morning  brings 
Fresh  tides  of  life  in  living  things, 
And  the  great  world  awakes :  behold 
That  quiet  Hand  in  morning  gold ! 

I  see  it  when  the  noontide  beats 
Pulses  of  fire  in  busy  streets ; 
The  dust  flies  in  the  flaming  air : 
Above,  that  Golden  Hand  is  there. 

I  see  it  when  the  twilight  clings 
Around  the  earth  with  rosy  wings  : 
Flashing  with  the  last  fluttering  ray 
That  Golden  Hand  remembers  Day. 

The  midnight  comes — the  holy  hour ; 
The  city,  like  a  giant  flower 
Sleeps  full  of  dew :  that  Hand,  in  light 
Of  moon  and  stars,  how  strangely  bright  I 


THE    GOLDEN    HAND. 

Below,  in  many  a  noisy  street, 
Are  toiling  hands  and  striving  feet. 
The  weakest  rise — the  strongest  fall ; 
That  Golden  Hand  is  over  all. 

Below,  men  wage  the  war  of  Trade, 
Fortunes  are  lost  and  fortunes  made ; 
The  rich  the  poor,  their  slaves,  enthrall ; 
That  Golden  Hand  is  over  all. 

Below,  in  courts  to  guard  the  land, 
Gold  buys  the  tongue  and  binds  the  hand ; 
Stealing  in  Justice,  scales  the  gold — 
That  Golden  Hand  above,  behold ! 

Below,  the  Sabbaths  walk  serene 
With  the  great  dust  of  Days  between ; 
Preachers  within  their  pulpits  stand, 
And  over  all  that  Golden  Hand ! 

The  week-dust,  in  the  crowded  air 
Below,  arises  never  there ; 
Like  one  whose  language  can  not  speak, 
That  Hand  makes  Sabbath  all  the  week. 


GHOSTS. 


GHOSTS. 

IN  the  olden  mansion  lying 

That  has  known  me  — long  ago  — 

Far  I  see  the  long  white  river 
Flash  the  lightnings  of  the  snow. 

The  moon  so  close  by  the  window 
Freezes  in  the  trees  with  her  light, 

A  glitter  of  motionless  silence 
All  the  ice-lit  branches  bright ! 

Working  at  the  drowsy  silence 
There  are  footsteps  on  the  stair, 

Lifting  up  their  ghostly  echoes 

From  the  chambers  —  everywhere ! 

Some  arising,  slow  and  heavy, 
Toiling  with  the  clogs  of  heart, 

As  the  dreary  and  weary  languor 
Of  their  toil  will  ne'er  depart. 

Some  seem  borne  on  childhood  laughter, 
As  if  all  life's  roses  were  red ! 

Children's  footsteps  speak  their  language 
But  all  are  the  feet  of  the  dead ! 


GHOSTS.  7 

How  near  they  startle  the  stairway  ! 

I  feel  the  opening  door ! 
Now  far  and  fainter  dying 

They  echo  in  me  no  more. 

In  a  moment  the  door  will  open ! 

How  near  they  grow  again ! 
They  have  left  the  ghost  of  their  silence 

Walking  in  my  brain ! 

Growing  up  the  haunted  stairway 

I  have  heard  them  oft  before, 
In  this  olden  house  forever, 

Haunting  me  forevermore. 

Strangers  here  have  never  heard  them, 

For  I  know  they  are  all  mine, 
Rising  ever,  O  heart !  and  dying 

On  that  haunted  stair  of  thine ! 

To  me,  forever  returning, 

My  souls  forever  fled  — 
Startling  the  stair  forever  and  ever, 

I  hear  my  footsteps  dead ! 

O  heart,  make  braver  beating, 

The  funeral  haunting  the  stair, 
Is  the  long,  long  dead  procession 

That  follows  thee  everywhere  ! 


THE    FORGOTTEN    WELL. 


THE   FORGOTTEN   WELL. 

BESIDE  the  highway  old — 
(The  weeds  their  story  tell) — 

With  vanished  curb,  and  filled  with  stones, 
Some  old,  forgotten  Well  I 

The  chimney,  crumbling  low, 

A  mute  historian  stands, 
Of  human  joy  and  human  woe  — 

Far,  faded  fireside  bands  ! 

Here  still  the  apple  blows 

Blossoms  of  rose-lit  snow ; 
The  rose-tree  blessed  some  happy  hands 

With  roses,  long  ago. 

I  cannot  choose  but  dream 

Of  all  the  well  has  done : 
Old  gifts  of  beauty,  fresh  and  free, 

Flash  diamonds  in  the  sun  ! 

Travelers  with  weary  limbs, 
Toiling  through  dust  and  heat ; 

And  youths  in  dream-land  sowing  deeds, 
And  maidens  blushing  sweet ; 


THE    FORGOTTEN    WELL. 

The  reaper,  from  his  sheaves  — 
The  mower,  from  his  scythe : 

The  freshness  flowed  into  their  hearts 
And  voices,  fresh  and  blithe  ! 

Forgotten  by  the  throng, 

Uncared  for  and  unknown, 
None  see  it  through  the  wood  of  weeds 

Neglect  has  slowly  sown. 

Yet,  under  all,  'tis  there  ! 

The  fountain  ne'er  grows  old ; 
And,  if  the  sunshine  came  to  see, 

As  bright,  as  pure,  as  cold ! 

So  many  a  Heart  —  a  well, 
Where  all  could  draw,  before, 

Deserted  lurks,  and  no  one  comes 
To  draw  its  beauty  more. 

Around,  weeds  gather  slow, 

Yet  under  all,  unknown, 
Springs  the  old  fountain,  fresh  and  free  — 

Oh,  give  it  back  the  sun  ! 


XOOXKISE 

ri  fa  :,- 


:r 
.11 


11 


DEEAM-WOBLD. 


12  PARTING. 

How  far !  how  near  it  seems ! 
This  weary  world  forgotten  far,  unseen — 
Circling  lost  sunshine  in  a  heart  serene, 

That  strange  bright  world  of  dreams ! 


PARTING. 

WE  clasp  our  hands :  we  turn  and  go — 
Our  foot  falls  echoing  years  between ; 

We  meet  again ;  we  hardly  know 

(Years  whisper)  to  whom  change  has  been. 

We  clasp  our  parting  hands ;  we  go, 

Far  travelers  with  strange  Hours  and  Years ; 

The  face,  the  form,  the  voice  we  know, 
They  come  not  back  from  time  and  tears. 

We  clasp  our  hands  in  loving  trust ; 

We  send  our  hearts  back  o'er  the  wave ; 
No  hand  can  reach  us  from  the  dust — 

No  voice  can  find  us — in  the  grave ! 


POSTSCRIPT.  13 


POSTSCRIPT. 

I  shall  not  hear  from  her  again : 

In  all  my  blushing  letters,  long 
I  stole  the  secret  from  my  pen, 

And  hid  it  in  unwritten  song. 
Her  letters,  sweet  as  roses  pressed, 

Bloom  from  my  dreaming  heart  to-day. 
Flushing  I  wrote,  in  sweet  unrest : 

My  rose  forgot  to  climb  for  May. 

Long  years :  for  her  another's  name — 

Another's  lip — another's  arm — 
(Ah,  crawl  into  the  ashes,  flame!) 

Another  heart — though  mine  was  warm. 
My  cricket,  hush !  his  mirth  is  stilled ; 

Dream-flames  among  dream-embers  play ; 
Another  my  Lost  Heaven  has  filled : 

My  rose  forgot  to  climb  for  May. 

Ah,  well — the  Postscript  steals  at  last 
Beneath  shy  letters,  buried — dead : 

"I  love" — in  my  regret  are  cast 

Low  echoes,  whispering  words  unsaid. 


14  CAGED    BIRDS. 

Sweet  flowers,  remember  her,  apart ; 

Write  your  sweet  postscript  here  to-day 
Upon  her  headstone — in  my  heart ; 

My  rose  forgot  to  climb  for  May. 


CAGED    BIRDS. 

SPELL-BOUND  within  their  cage,  my  heart, 
Are  sweetest  birds  that  ever  sing 

On  beams  to  heaven ;  they  dream  apart 
Silent,  with  folded  wing. 

Spring  lays  her  blessing  hands  on  all 
The  earth :  it  blossoms !     Everything 

Breathes — sings !     They  pass  the  festival 
Silent,  with  folded  wing. 

You  have  the  word,  beloved  one, 

The  magic  key  of  opening : 
O  give  these  larks  a  morning  sun — 

Earth,  heaven  of  you  shall  sing ! 


IN   THE    ORCHARD.  15 


IN    THE    ORCHARD. 

0  THE  beautiful  apples,  so  golden  and  mellow, 

They  will  fall  at  the  kiss  of  the  breeze ! 
While  it  breathes  through  the  foliage,  frosty  and  yellow, 

When  the  sunshine  is  filling  the  trees. 
Though  high  in  the  light  wind  they  gladly  would  linger 

On  the  boughs  where  their  blossoms  were  found, 
Yet  they  drop  at  a  breath — at  the  touch  of  a  finger, 

They  shatter  their  cores  on  the  ground ! 

Through  the  morns  of  October,  while  Autumn  is  trying 

With  all  things  to  whisper  of  Spring, 
How  the  leaves  of  the  orchard  around  us  are  flying, 

And  the  heavens  seem  ready  to  sing! 
How  the  ladders  in  breezes  of  sunshine  are  swinging ! 

The  farmer  boys  gladden  and  climb ! 
To  gather  the  fruit  they  are  swaying  and  singing — 

Glad  hearts  to  glad  voices  keep  time ! 

Far  down  the  bright  air  they  are  happy  to  listen 

The  noise  of  the  mill  and  the  flail, 
And  the  waters  that  laugh,  as  they  leap  and  they  glisten, 

From  the  dam  that  is  lighting  the  vale ; 


16  IN    THE    ORCHARD. 

The  wild  flutter  of  bells  that  so  breezily  rises 
From  glades  where  the  yellow  leaves  blow — 

And  the  laughter  of  faces  in  childish  surprises, 
If  the  wind  fling  an  apple  below ! 

Oh  see !  in  the  trees  that  are  drinking  the  splendor. 

How  the  gladness  of  boyhood  is  seen ! 
How  they  shake  all  the  branches  so  windy  and  slender, 

And  a  bright  golden  rain  is  between ! 
And  higher  they  climb,  till  the  grasses  are  covered 

With  the  fruits  that  were  sweet  April  flowers, 
And  the  yellowing  leaves  that  all  over  them  hovered, 

Flutter  down  with  the  apples  in  showers ! 

The  harvests  are  garnered — the  meadows  are  burning, 

Every  sunset  in  golden  and  brown ; 
The  apples  are  gathered,  the  wains  are  returning, 

And  the  winter  may  bluster  and  frown : 
The  blind  drifting  snows  may  make  barren  the  even — 

Golden  twilights  may  shiver  in  rain — 
But  the  Apples  and  Cider  by  Summer  are  given 

To  give  Winter  to  Summer  again ! 


TO    A    CHILD. 


TO    A    CHILD. 

0  WHILE  from  me,  this  lovely  morn,  depart 
Dreams  vague,  and  vain,  and  wild, 

Sing,  happy  child — sing,  dance  into  my  heart, 
Where  I  was  once  a  child. 

With  eyes  that  send  the  butterflies  before, 

With  lips  that  kiss  the  rose, 
O  happy  child,  joy  opes  your  morning  door — 

Joy  kisses  your  repose  ! 

The  fairy  Echo-children  love  you,  try 

To  steal  your  loving  voice ; 
Flying  you  laugh — they,  laughing  while  you  fly, 

Laughing  your  glee,  rejoice ! 

O  while  from  me,  this  lovely  morn,  depart 
Dreams  vague,  and  vain,  and  wild, 

Play,  happy  child — sing,  dance  within  my  heart, 
Where  I— will  be  a  child  ! 


THE  MI0HT-TKAIX. 


A 

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20  THE    SPRING. 


THE    SPRING. 

THE   Spring!    The  Spring!    She  comes  again!    In  the 

sunny  world  once  more ! 
The  children  sweet,  they  meet  and  greet,  and  pull  her  to 

the  door ! 

Like  a  maiden,  dancing  home  her  song :   0,  echoes  sad, 

depart ! 
Her  smile's  the  key  in  every  door  of  the  prison  of  the 

heart ! 

All  things  remember,  seeing  her — her  traveling  choir  the 

birds ; 
What  singing  in  the  sunshine,  and  what  lowing  of  the 

herds ! 

The  lambs,  that  only  Winter  knew,  have  like  a  garland 

bound  her — 
As  if  they  knew  her  long  ago,   all  gladdening,  dance 

around  her ! 

The  trees  she   only  looks  upon — green  leaves  begin  to 

grow; 
The  orchard  blushes  !    Is  it  snow? — but  oh!  how  fragrant 

snow! 


THE    POET'S    BIRD.  21 

All  things  are  in  the  sunny  air,  whatever  can  learn  to  fly ; 
The  very  worm  has  the  brightest  wings,  in  its  heaven — 
the  butterfly! 

The  Spring !   The  Spring !    She  is  here  again — her  train. 

the  brightest  Hours ! 
And  the  last  o'  the  snow,  she  is  smiling  so,  forgets  it  was 

not — flowers ! 


THE    POET'S    BIRD. 

"MANY  a  little  song  there  flutters 

From  my  heart  on  sunlit  wings : 

In  the  world's  blue  sky  it  singeth — 

From  my  heart  its  echo  sings." 

Far  away  it  flieth,  singing 

Through  the  Mays  of  many  springs 
(He  was  laid  in  lost  Decembers) — 

From  all  hearts  its  echo  sings  ! 


22  THE   LOST    SONGS. 


THE   LOST    SONGS. 

HE  lived  and  died :  he  sang  sweet  songs 

Of  flower  that  blooms — of  bird  that  sings — 
Of  feelings  sweet  that  through  the  dust 

Of  life  lift  their  forgotten  wings. 
His  earth  was  God's :  he  deemed  he  saw 

In  every  path  His  image  stand ; 
On  every  flower  unseen  by  all, 

He  saw  the  Sabbath-resting  Hand ! 

All  things  to  him  were  dear — the  voice 

Of  childhood-glee,  of  mother-love — 
He  clasped  the  dear  world  to  his  heart, 

And  lifted  eyes  to  bless  above. 
The  brother-world — he  knew  so  well — 

Their  brother  saw  and  knew  him  not  : 
He  roamed  an  exile  in  their  land ; 

He  died  without  their  doors — forgot. 

Years  passed :  the  sunshine  seemed  more  bright — 
The  Mays  more  blithe — the  earth  more  young. 

Years  passed :  oh,  sweetest  lips  grew  sweet 
When  many  an  orphan  song  was  sung. 


THE   LOST    SONGS.  23 

Flowers  human  grew,  to  musing  men, 

By  those  song-children  plucked  and  given ; 

All  mornings  gladdening  took  the  pulse 
Of  those  strange  skylarks  in  their  heaven ! 

Now  many  a  little  orphan  child 

Of  song  looks  up  into  the  eyes 
Of  Pride,  and  Hate,  and  "Wrong,  and  sings 

Till  tears  of  love  and  pity  rise. 
These  are  the  songs  the  poet  sang 

Unnoticed  o'er  the  earth  long  years — 
And  the  world  wonders  where  he  lies : 

They  seek  to  name  his  grave  with  tears ! 

None  knows :  no  rose  was  planted  there, 

Remembering  him — no  lettered  stone : 
Those  little  songs,  that  wandered  lost, 

Are  all  that  knew  the  poet  lone. 
"Ah,"  the  world  cries,  "our  brother  died 

Without — we  heeded  not  his  call." 
The  proud  world  sighs  :  "  These  orphan  songs 

May  live  within  the  hearts  of  all." 


24  SONNET. 


SONNET, 

ON  JONES'S  BUST  OF  SALMON  p.  CHASE. 

A  NOBLE  soul  is  breathing  from  the  clay, 

Created,  Sculptor,  to  a  soul  by  thee, 

A  noble  soul  a  noble  man's  must  be ; 

One  of  the  few  who  knelt  not  to  To-day, 
Nor  petty  stampings  of  the  applausive  Hour ; 

But  in  the  hush  of  Truth's  uprising  light, 

Upheld  in  word,  and  dared  in  deed  the  right : — 

Nor  sued  the  many-headed  god  for  power. 
Oh,  beautiful !  on  the  calm  lips  content, 

Breathes  the  high  presence  of  a  life  well  spent : — 

A  brow  the  Centuries  love.     No  marble  needs 
His  soul  that  breathes  itself  in  marble  deeds. 

O  be  it  long,  Ohio's  truest  son ! 

Before  this  marble,  here,  contains  that  soul  alone. 


A    GLAD    SEPTEMBER   MORNING.  25 


A   GLAD   SEPTEMBER   MORNING. 

ALL  tilings  breathe  full  of  life  this  Autumn  morn ; 

The  hills  seem  growing  under  silver  cloud ; 
A  fresher  spirit  in  Nature's  veins  is  born ; 

The  woodlands  are  blowing  lustily  and  loud- — 
The  crows  fly  cawing  among  the  flying  leaves — 

On  sunward  lifted  branches  struts  the  jay — 
The  fluttering  brooklet,  dashing  bright,  receives 

Bright  frosty  silverings,  slow  from  ledges  gray 
Of  rock  among  fresh  sunlight  glittering  out — 

Cold  apples  drop  through  orchards  mellowing — 
'Neath  forest  eaves  quick  squirrels  laugh  and  shout — 
Farms  answer  farms,  as  through  bright  morns  of  spring, 
And  joy,  with  dewiest  pulses,  full  and  strong, 
Joy,  everywhere,  goes  Maying  with  a  song. 


26  THE    WEEK. 


THE    WEEK. 

SWEET  Days !  God's  daughters,  shining  o'er  the  world ! 
Bright  are  your  feet  on  the  far  morning  shore — 
And  going  back  to  heaven  evermore 

Through  twilight's  dreamy  golden  gates  unfurled 

Your  footprints  'mong  the  dews  of  even  are  bright ! 
A  singing  garland  round  the  golden  throne, 
Guarded  by  angel  wings — a  heavenly  zone — 

Fair  are  ye  all — sweet  children  of  the  Light ! 

Yet  fairest  she — the  youngest  of  your  name — 
The  Sabbath  Day  in  her  translucent  white, 
And  wearing  round  her  brow  the  halo  light, 

Shining  till  all  things  near  her  wear  the  same ; 

For  though  God  love  ye  all — when  ye  are  blessed — 

His  hand  lies  on  the  brow  of  the  sweet  Day  of  Rest. 


A   PARTING. 


A    PARTING. 

WE  leave  the  olden  house  to-day 

That  in  our  hearts  forever  is 

The  dear,  deserted  chrysalis  — 
"Wing'd  hours  of  childhood  flown  away ! 

The  trees  we  rooted  in  the  Past 
April  shall  flush — autumnal  cold 
Shall  warm  their  apple-cheeks  with  gold  — 

Crushing  the  mellow  cores  at  last. 

The  rose  shall  climb  forever  thus 

Into  the  Junes — though  we  depart  — 
And  take  the  bees  into  its  heart, 

And  in  the  window  look  for  us ! 

The  grass  shall  wear  around  the  door 

Our  hands'  fresh  flowers — the  twilight  breeze 
Shall  find  our  voices  in  the  trees, 

The  vine  shall  whisper  evermore  — 

"  O  they  made  sunshine  for  all  hours, 

And  gave  it  to  the  darker  ones ! 

They  wear  the  years  in  other  suns, 
And  yonder  grows  —  a  place  of  flowers!" 


28  A   PARTING. 

Young  feet  shall  give  the  stairs  delight, 
The  chimney,  clasping  home  around, 
Wed  happy  hearts  to  loving  sound 

From  faces  rosy  in  rosy  light. 

The  gate  shall  open  to  receive  — 

Our  dreams! — no  more,  oh!   nevermore 
The  rhyming  hearts  and  feet  of  yore — 

Nor  all  together  as  we  leave ! 

The  years  shall  come — the  flowers  shall  blow- 
Through  all  their  glitter  of  leaves  again 
The  trees  shall  sing  in  sunset  rain  — 

But  we  are  gone.     The  years  will  go. 

But  ye  so  loved  —  so  sad  to  leave 

Pale  orphans  of  sweet  hours  we  knew,' 
That  died  in  heavens  of  sunniest  blue  — 

Children  that  parting  stand  and  grieve. 

Sweet  memories !  here  forevermore, 
(That  parting  clasp  our  knees  so  dear), 
If  we  return  ye  will  be  here  : 

Keep  open  house  and  open  door. 

Remain  in  old  familiar  places, 

Sing  songs  of  sunshine — laugh  as  they, 
With  souls  of  happiness  at  play, 

With  sunshine  o'er  your  loving  faces ! 


IF.  29 

Ye  cannot  move  with  us.     We  go : 

But  oftentimes — in  dreams  perchance — 
Strangers  may  pass,  like  sunshine  dance, 

To  meet  them  at  the  gate  and  know ! 


IF. 

BONES  whitening  and  crouched  lions  in  our  track 

Are  types  of  thee,  O  most  provoking  Unity ; 
Pitfalls  that  sleep — we  shudder,  crawling  back 

Across  the  golden  bridge  of  Opportunity. 
What  mighty  victories  have  for  thee  been,  scrolled 

But  for  thee,  long  ago,  Archimedes 
Had  pried  the  green  world  from  its  orbit  old, 

And  Alexander  been  Diogenes ! 
Wide  armies  ambuscaded  by  thee,  reeling : 

Wide  cities,  earthquake-shaken,  from  thee  flying : 
A  black  knight  palsying  with  enchanted  lance : 
Dim  ghost  of  Doubt  the  warm  life-pulses  feeling ; 

Cold  sun  whose  system  clasps  all  mortal  trying : 
Dwarf-axle  of  the  giant  wheel  of  Chance ! 


30  THE  OLD  PIANO'S  PLAYERS. 


THE    OLD   PIANO'S   PLAYERS. 

0  LEAVE  the  keys  unfingered  for  Spirits  of  the  Breeze : 
JEolian  music  played  by  Time  kisses  the  silent  keys. 

The  tones  they  give  thy  fingers  seem  harsh  and  old  to-day  : 
The  silence  whispers  lovingly,  the  music  passed  away. 

Sweet  ghosts  of  music  rising !  Now  low,  now  loud  it  swells ; 
Now  gladdening  into  bridal  trains,  now  tolling  funeral  bells. 

Unseen  they  throng  around  it — what  dream-like  players 

these ! 
And  fingers  from  the  Past  are  reached,  and  touch  the 

enchanted  keys ! 

Steal  forms  of  grace  around  it,  and  eyes  of  tenderness : 
O  pulse's  music-wakened !     O  voices  made  to  bless ! 

Hands  dust,  hearts  ashes  now  that  beat  responsive  long 

ago; 
To  shadowy  fingers  on  the  keys,  old  voices  ebb  and  flow. 

What  happy  sounds  awaken :    the  words  of  Youth  and 

Love 
Freight  lovely  lips  again  with  song,  old  dreams  to  music 

move. 


THE    OLD   PIANO'S   PLATERS.  31 

0  sweet  enchanted  music,  at  the  threshold  of  our  dreams  — 
Before  the  opening  portals  —  how  beautiful  it  seems ! 

Ah,  if  those  unseen  players,  whose   dreams  the  keys 

remember, 
Could   steal  within  the  twilight,  how  May  would  leave 

December ! 

Faces  would  steal  from  locks  of  gray,  and  wrinkled  fea- 
tures wear 

The  purple  dawn  of  Time,  and  eyes  their  vanished  bright- 
ness bear. 

Lips  kissing  long,  the  long  dead  years  —  in  coffins  far 

apart  — 
Would  kiss  the  Future  rosily,  with  roses  in  the  heart ! 

Ah,  embers  glow  from  ashes  —  the  Past's  dream-fragrant 
dust, 

Long-crumbled  rose-leaves  of  the  heart,  is  Memory's  lov- 
ing trust ! 

0  leave  the  keys  unfingered! — for  harsh  their  tone  to-day ; 
But  Silence  whispers  lovingly  the  music  passed  away. 


32  THE    FORGOTTEN    STREET. 


THE    FORGOTTEN   STREET. 

THROUGH  Midnight's  holy  hush,  with  hushing  feet, 

Seeming  to  hear  the  sleeping  heart-beat  plain, 
I  wandered  slow  through  the  forgotten  street, 

Toil's  weary  tread-mill — Traffic's  noisy  brain — 
Where  flashed  the  wheels — the  busy  dust  was  blown — 

Where  all  went  masked — Life  lost  his  brother  Death — 
Where  sat  the  God  Gold  on  his  golden  throne 

Last  noon,  last  eve — and  through  the  crowded  breath, 
Mocking  the  Babel,  crept  the  funerals  through ; 
Lo !  all  the  dust  lies  down  in  heaven's  dew ! 

The  holy  Crown  of  every  weary  Day — 

The  Night — the  Rest,  the  Sleep,  the  Dream — is  here  ; 
The  star-light  glitters,  the  pure  dew-winds  play, 

Where  swarmed  the  myriad  feet — the  smile,  the  tear—- 
The bride's  rose-wreath  of  joy-lit  girls — the  train 

Funereal,  hushing  through  the  singing  hours — 
The  waking-dream  of  Life  and  Death.     Again 

The  seeds  of  Sleep  sow  all  the  dark  with  flowers, 
Blooming  in  some  returning  Paradise : 
The  World,  a  Child,  pulls  them  with  loving  eyes ! 


THE    FORGOTTEN    STREET.  33 

Where  are  they  vanished  ?     Here  an  hour  ago ! 

The  hiving  purposes  that  hum  no  more  ? 
Napoleon-wills  that  made  the  Alps  seem  low  ? 

To  Dream-land ! — what  far  sunrise  finds  that  shore  ? 
To  that  New  World — who  but  Columbus  knows  ? 

Where  are  the  homeless  exiles  ?     Gone  to  dreams ! 
To  the  green  lands  the  love  of  Heaven  blows ; 

Laugh  in  their  eyes  green  England's  village-gleams ; 
The  German  all-forgets  he  left  the  Rhine — 
Sings  in  the  Past — the  golden  hills  of  wine ! 

Hope,  bee -like,  cradled  in  the  morrow-rose, 

Dreams  on  the  dead,  cold  bosom  of  To-day, 
Despair,  at  Morning's  threshold,  finds  repose — 

Wearing  the  face  of  Hope  and  heart  of  May ; 
The  young,  the  old — rich,  poor — the  evil,  good — 

Take  God's  rich  alms  alike  in  blinded  eyes 
To  beggar-hearts — sweet  sleep ! — in  gratitude ; 

The  Eve  with  Adam  still  in  Eden  lies ; 
The  fallen  from  the  heaven  of  human  love, 
Rise  from  the  scornful  flame — singing  above ! 

Where  yonder  vine-top,  in  the  moonshine  gleams, 
To  some  bright  breeze's  fingering,  sleeps  a  girl — 

Clasping  the  white  dove  of  her  bosom,  dreams ; 
The  silver  moonlight  clasps  the  golden  curl, 

And  the  leaf's  shadow  plays  o'er  her  pure  eyes. 


34  THE    FORGOTTEN    STREET. 

She  sleeps — she  dreams  the  morn  to  wake  her  joy ! 
The  dream  is  there.     The  gate  of  Paradise 

(Those  angels  have  forgot  their  old  employ), 
To-morrow  opes.     To-morrow  clasps  to-day ; 
The  lark  sings  up  into  her  heaven  of  May ! 

There  haunts  a  prison.     White,  pure,  holy  stars  ! 

Through  all  .the  dark,  reach  ye  the  darkness  there  ? 
Rains  your  sweet  influence  through  the  ghastly  bars — 

The  grated  soul  ?     Sleep  opes  the  prison-air ! 
God's  sweetest  human  angel,  loving  all, 

Kisses  the  lips  and  hovers  happy  wings ; 
A  child  sings  forth  from  some  rose-clasping  hall, 

Dancing  his  song  into  all  loving  things ! 
And  who  is  she  that  keeps  his  hand  ? — the  gleam 
Losing  his  dark !     That  angel  leaves  his  dream ! 

Pleasure  lies  in  the  rose's  heart  asleep, 

And  sorrow  falls  asleep  in  Pleasure's  arms' ; 
The  mighty  torrent,  Life,  seems  slumbering  deep 

Over  the  precipice.     Time's  hive  no  more  swarms 
In  the  charmed  palace  of  the  Soul's  distress ; 

All  dream  their  dream,  and  wait  the  morrow's  kiss 
To  sing  the  sunshine  from  their  happiness, 

And  give  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  clouds  their  bliss  ! 
The  Ixion-world  wakes  in  To-morrow's  ray, 
Turning  the  ever-turning  wheel  To-day ! 


COUSINS    BELLE    AND    KITTIE.  35 


COUSINS   BELLE   AND   KITTIE. 

I  HAVE  two  cousins.     One  is  sweetly  shy ; 
Her  heart's  sweet  roses  climb  into  her  cheek 
In  lovely  answers.     If  you  hear  her  speak, 

You  love  her  voice — forgetting  she  is  by. 

O,  she  is  beautiful !     Her  pure  large  eyes 
Keep  heaven's  azure  in  their  soul's  far  deeps, 
Ay,  loth  are  beautiful !     The  other  weeps 

And  smiles — to  steal  a  rainbow  in  your  skies ! 

Dark  mischief-eyes,  and  raven  ringlets,  which 
Are  shaken  o'er  her  darling  scorn.     The  kisses 

She'll  toss  to  you  (despair)  !  may  never  reach 
Your  lips,  that,  bee-like,  wait  the  rosy  blisses ! 

I  love  them  both.     Which  most  ?     I  dare  not  know ; 

I  weigh  them  in  the  dice-box :   darlings,  throw ! 


36  GENIUS    LOCI. 


GENIUS   LOCI. 

AH,  this  is  the  place  where  my  boyhood 
Saw  its  beautiful  moments  depart : 

The  butterflies  winged  in  the  sunshine — 
Their  chrysalis — dust  in  my  heart ! 

Still  green  are  the  hills  in  the  distance, 
And  breathing  of  Summer  the  farms; 

But  the  Years  clasp  the  Present  forever 
To  the  Past  with  their  shadowy  arms ! 

I  wander  in  pathways  familiar, 
But  vanished  are  faces  so  kind ; 

The  footsteps  of  strangers  have  trodden 
The  footprints  I  dreamed  I  would  find. 

Come  back  to  me,  beautiful  visions ! 

Steal  over  me,  vanishing  sky  ! 
"With  the  rose-like  soul  of  my  boyhood, 

Blossom,  sweet  days  gone  by ! 

O  beautiful  soul  that  was  dreaming 
In  this  heart,  so  deserted,  for  years : 

My  Boyhood,  the  angel  that  lingers 

In  the  Kainbow's  sweet  Heaven  of  Tears  ! 


GENIUS    LOCI.  37 

My  Boyhood,  come  back !    From  the  sunshine 

A  hoop  is  the  world  of  his  care — 
He  gazes  at  me  for  a  moment, 

And  vanishes  into  the  air  ! 

Come  back !    From  the  school  that  is  closing 

Boy-faces  burst  joyous  and  bright : 
One  only  among  them  remembers, 

And  vanishes  into  the  light ! 

Come  back !     With  a  kite  in  his  heaven, 
Flash  his  heart's  happy  wings  in  the  sun : 

He  gazes  upon  me  a  moment, 
And  flashes  to  air  and  is  gone ! 

Come  back,  O  my  beautiful  boyhood ! 

For  weary  the  heart  is  that  sings — 
And  the  chrysalis  here  in  my  bosom 

No  longer  remembers  thy  wings  ! 


38  PILGRIMS. 


PILGRIMS. 

WE  may  not  be  contented :  'tis  our  life 

To  drag  slow  footsteps  after  the  far  mind — 
The  long  Endeavor  toiling  up  behind 

The  bright-winged  Aspiration — ceaseless  strife 

Clasping  the  cold  hand  Guerdon  for  warm  heart 
Of  all  desires.     No  man  may  feel  the  goal : 
The  want  divine — the  hunger  of  the  soul 

Moves  like  a  star — the  thirst  will  not  depart, 
Howe'er  we  drink.     'Tis  that  before  us  goes 
Keeps  us  a-weary — will  not  leave  us  lay 

Our  heads  in  dream-land,  though  the  enchanted  palm 
Rise  from  our  desert — though  the  fountain  grows 

Up  in  our  path,  and  slumber's  flowery  balm ; 
The  soul  is  o'er  the  horizon — far  away. 


THE    BOUQUET.  39 


THE   BOUQUET. 

"  I  LOVE  her,  Fairy  Rose,"  I  said, 
"  But,  darling,  whisper  not :" 
The  rose  within  her  bosom  laid, 
Blushing,  my  blushing  thought. 

"  I  love  her,"  then  I  whispered  deep 

In  Violet's  heavenly  heart : 

In  her  sweet  eyes  a  child  asleep 

The  secret  dreamed  apart. 

"  I  love  her,  gentle  Lily,  bright 

As  her  pure  soul's  sweet  springs :" 
The  Angel  of  the  flowers,  white, 
Around  it  drew  her  wings. 

"  I  love  her,"  to  the  other  flowers 

I  whispered — every  one  : 
"  We  must  not  tell  this  Queen  of  ours 

The  secret  we  have  won." 

They  came  to  her :  they  all  forgot 

Their  fairy  promise  true. 
Ah,  flowers  can  have  no  secret  thought: 

Their  Queen  their  secret  knew  ! 


40  THE    LETTER    ^TITH   A   ROSE-LEAF. 

My  love  the  Rose  had  overflushed ; 

Lisped  Violet  tenderest  things ; 
The  Angel  of  the  flowers  blushed 

Till  Love  stole  from  her  wings. 


THE  LETTER  WITH  A  ROSE-LEAF 

I  GREET  thee,  loving  letter — 

Unopen,  kiss  thee,  free, 
And  dream  her  soul  within  thee 

Gives  back  the  kiss  to  me. 

The  fragrant  little  rose-leaf 
She  sends  by  thee,  is  come  : 

Ah,  in  her  heart  was  blooming 
The  rose  she  stole  it  from ! 


SABBATH    EVENING   AFTER    A.    SHOWER.  41 


SABBATH  EVENING  AFTER  A  SHOWER. 

FRESH,  breezy  trees  are  shaking  into  gold, 

Against  the  sinking  of  the  cool,  broad  sun ; 
Far  spires  shown  o'er  them,  tremulously  fold 

Their  sunny  mingling  presence  scarcely  won 
Through  the  bright  distance  in  the  gush  of  light ; 

Long  streets  hang  quiet  down  the  golden  air ; 
Low  eaves  and  windows  fresh  are  hidden  bright 

In  vines  sweet-fluttering,  sunlit,  everywhere. 
How  slow  and  calm  and  solemn  afar  are  tolled 

The  evening  bells  down  through  the  city  wide, 
"With  melancholy  echoes  through  the  gold. 

Hushed  twilight  breathes  along  the  river's  tide, 
Like  music  in  a  soul  whispering  to  Peace 
Of  Sabbath  Hours  and  Days  that  never  cease. 


42      THE  YELLOW  LEAF  IN  THE  POET'S  BOOK. 


THE  YELLOW  LEAF  IN  THE  POET'S  BOOK. 

"  WHISPER,  Yellow  Leaf,  to  me 
Thy  forgotten  history." 

"  One  far  spring-time,  green  and  young, 
On  a  sunny  bough  I  hung. 

Happiest  of  happy  leaves  were  we, 
Fluttering  green  on  the  green  tree ! 

Merrily  fairy  moonbeams  played, 
Dancing  through  our  checkered  shade. 

Decked  with  Morn's  lost  jewelry, 
Full  of  singing  birds  were  we — 

Through  the  May  and  through  the  June, 
Dancing  every  breeze's  tune. 

.Ask  not  whither  they  are  gone  : 
I  am  old  and  here  alone. 

Their  far  Summer-time  was  brief: 
I  am  here  a  Yellow  Leaf. 

Sunbeams  grew  cold,  the  winds  grew  wild : 
Kiss  the  Summer's  orphan  child ! " 


THE  YELLOW  LEAF  IN  THE  POET'S  BOOK. 

"  Yellow  Leaf,  O  whisper  me 
Why  the  Poet  treasures  thee." 

"  That  far  Spring,  when  we  were  young, 

In  our  shade  a  maiden  sung. 

i 
And  the  Poet's  life,  a  tree, 

Danced  with  leaves  as  glad  as  we. 

But  the  happy  leaves  at  last 
Fluttered,  yellowing,  to  the  Past : 

See  his  song  along  with  me, 
Yellow  Leaf  of  Memory ! 

Book-marks  of  his  life  we  lie, 
Brother-leaves,  the  Song  and  I. 

Song  and  Leaf,  from  that  far  Spring 
Dreams  of  joy  and  woe  we  bring. 

Let  the  Poet's  song  be  sung — 
I  again  am  green  and  young, 

And  a  maiden  sings  below — 
Fern-leaves,  shadows,  wreathe  her  brow ! 

Ah,  that  Summer-time  was  brief: 
Love  the  Poet's  Yellow  Leaf ! " 


44  FROST-BLOOM. 


FROST-BLOOM. 

IT  blossoms  on  the  windows, 

All  the  long  December  night, 
While  the  Earth  'neath  the  moon  lies  dreaming, 

Heart-hushed,  with  a  face  all  bright. 

It  blossoms  on  the  windows, 

The  Phantom-Summer  of  Frost, 
The  trees,  the  flowers  and  the  foliage — 

All  that  of  lovely  is  lost. 

The  children  will  waken  at  dawning, 
With  childhood's  hushed  surprise : 

Oh !  a  beautiful  summer  blossoms 

From  the  frost,  in  their  hearts  and  eyes ! 

The  beautiful  summer  blossoms 
To  their  hearts'  enchanted  charm ; 

They  think  not  of  vanished  summers — 
Hearth  and  heart  are  happy  and  warm. 


FROST-BLOOM.  45 

It  blossoms  a  phantom  summer — 

The  phantom  summer  of  frost ; 
For  the  old  man's  dreams  it  blossoms 

With  the  lovely,  the  loving  and  lost. 

He  wakens  in  the  dawning, 

Alone  in  the  world  again. 
The  frost  in  his  heart  had  blossomed, 

While  the  Frost  bloomed  on  the  pane ! 


46  DEW. 


DEW. 

WHILE  the  one  star  flutters  in  golden  blue, 
Over  the  sweet  young  moon,  and  everything 
Clasps  slumber  to  the  heart — with  folded  wing 

All  vulture-cares — breathes  down  the  loving  Dew, 

God's  benediction  o'er  the  cradled  Day. 

All  things  that  breathe  the  sunshine  everywhere, 
Leaves,  flowers  that  hold  their  prayerful  faces  fair, 

Purest  of  all  earth's  children,  as  to  pray — 

All  the  sweet  blessing  feel,  tree,  flower  and  weed, 
And  man's  wide  soul :  the  restless  Ocean  billows 

And  the  Soul's  waves — a  peace  the  stars  to  view  ! 

O  emblem  sweet  of  God's  sweet  love  !     The  need, 
The  prayer,  the  gift.     Lo !  on  their  quiet  pillows 

All  things  are  lying  in  God's  falling  Dew ! 


FALLEN    LEAVES.  47 


FALLEN   LEAVES. 

I  LOVE  to  steal  my  way 

Through  autumn's  woods,  when  autumn's  work  is  done, 
And  through  the  tree-tops  all  the  dream-like  day 

Breathes  the  soft  golden  sun. 

When  all  is  hushed  and  still, 
Only  a  few  last  leaves,  fluttering  slow 
Down  the  warm  air,  with  ne'er  a  breeze's  will — 

A  ghost  of  sound — below. 

When  naught  of  song  is  heard, 
Save  the  jay,  laughing  while  all  nature  grieves, 
Or  the  lone  chirp  of  seme  forgotten  bird 

Among  the  fallen  leaves. 

Around  me  everywhere 

Lie  leaves  that  fluttered  green  the  summer  long, 
Kissing  the  rainbow's  tears  in  sunset  air, — 

And  roofed  the  summer's  song. 


48  FALLEN   LEAVES. 

Why  shun  my  steps  to  tread 
These  silent  hosts  that  everywhere  are  strown, 
As  if  my  feet  were  walking  'mong  the  dead, 

And  I  alive,  alone  ? 

Hast  no  bright  trees,  O  Past ! 
Through  whose  bare  boughs,  once  green,  the  sunshine 

grieves  ? 
No  hopes  that  fluttered  in  the  autumnal  blast, 

No  memories — Fallen  Leaves  ? 


THE   TRUNDLE-BED.  49 


THE   TRUNDLE-BED. 

Do  you  remember?  long — long — long  ago ! 

Yet  there  thou  liest — though  all  the  Past  lies  dead 
That  nestled  in  thee !  old,  old  Trundle-bed ! 

Nest  of  delicious  fancies !  dreams  that  grow 

No  more !  Thou  magic  car  to  Fairy-land ! 

Ghosts  walked  the  earth  then  (in  the  garret  living : 
For  Polly  knew — our  hearing,  our  believing !) 

In  thee  we  saw  them  near — how  near  us  stand ! 

Stars,  then,  looked  out  of  heaven — to  heaven,  too, 
Prayers  clothed  like  angels  from  our  lips  arose — 
Though  from  the  heart  of  her  who  bent  so  close, 

Hushing  us  like  to  flowers  that  feel  the  dew. 

Alas !  those  dreamers  (buried  in  us)  dead, 

Fresh  morns  "shall  rouse  no  longer  from  their  lowly  led." 


50  ANONYMOUS. 


ANONYMOUS. 

HE  walked  forgotten  o'er  the  earth, 

But  still  his  songs  were  singing  there — 
Sweet  ghosts  that  came  with  heavenlier  air, 

His  dreams,  his  loves,  his  woes,  his  mirth ! 

None  knew  his  grave  but  poet-eyes : 
Flowers  wrote  their  memory  lovingly 
About  his  mound :  "  He  loved  us ;  we 

Loved  him  and  love  him :  Here  he  lies" 

Few  friends  were  his.     Ah,  few  his  need 
Of  friendship  knew :  they,  coffined  dreams ! 
But  first  they  buried  him,  it  seems : 

His  epitaph,  "He  sowed  the  seed" 

And  lo,  the  Harvest !  Through  the  land 
Beauty  has  bloomed  among  the  wheat ! 
The  reapers  toil  to  music  sweet ; 

The  gleaners,  weary,  singing  stand. 

Sweet  flowers  looked  up !     The  maidens  kissed 
Their  lips  his  God-light  human  made ; 
The  violets  lifted  in  the  shade — 

Heaven's  children  lost — blue  eyes  a-mist ! 


ANONYMOUS.  51 

He  toiled  not  in  the  Harvest  hours 

(Yet  took  his  harvest  home  indeed) ; 

Whispers  the  grave,  "He  sowed  the  seed" 
Lo !  Heaven  filled  all  his  wheat  with  flowers ! 

And,  here  and  there — unknown  before — 
"Where  fell  the  dreamer's  random  seed, 
Strange  century  flowers  arose,  indeed, 

Forever  blooming,  evermore. 


52  THE   BURIED    ORGAN. 


THE    BURIED    ORGAN. 

FAR  in  a  valley,  green  and  lone, 

Lying  within  some  legend  old, 
Sometimes  is  heard  an  Organ's  tone, 

Trembling,  into  the  silence  rolled. 
In  vanished  years  (the  legend  stands), 

To  save  it  from  the  unhallowing  prey 
Of  foemen's  sacrilegious  hands, 

The  monks  their  Organ  stole  away. 

None  knows  the  spot  wherein  they  laid 

That  body  of  the  heavenly  soul 
Of  music.     Deep  in  forest  shade, 

Forgotten,  lies  the  grave  they  stole. 
But  oftentimes,  in  Morning  gold, 

Or  through  the  Twilight's  hushing  air, 
Within  that  valley,  green  and  old, 

The  Organ's  soul  arises  there. 

O,  low  and  sweet,  and  strange  and  wild, 

It  whispers  to  the  holy  air, 
Gentle  as  lispings  of  a  child — 

Mild  as  an  infant  angel's  prayer, 


THE    BURIED    ORGAN.  53 

While  silence  trembles,  sweet  and  low : 

Then  rapture  bursts  into  the  skies, 
And  chanting  angels,  winging  slow 

On  wings  of  music,  seem  to  rise ! 

The  herdsman,  sometimes,  lost,  alone, 

Wanders  into  that  holier  air : 
He  hears  the  buried  Organ's  tone, 

Crossing  his  hands — his  breath  is  prayer ! 
And,  while  into  his  heart  it  steals, 

With  hushing  footsteps,  downcast  eyes, 
Some  grand  cathedral's  hush  he  feels — 

A  church  of  air,  and  earth,  and  skies ! 

Sometimes  when  the  sweet  wand  of  spring 

Has  filled  the  woods  with  flowers  unsown, 
Or  Autumn's  dreamy  breeze's  wing 

Flutters  through  falling  leaves — alone 
I  wander  forth,  and  leave  behind 

The  city's  dust — the  week-day  air : 
A  lonely  dell  far  off  I  find— 

I  know  the  buried  Organ  there ! 

Within  the  city's  noisy  air 

I  leave  the  creeds  their  Sabbath  bells ; 
I  cross  my  hands — my  breath  is  prayer, 

Hearing  that  Organ's  mystic  swells. 
The  sweet  birds  sing — the  soft  winds  blow — 

The  flowers  have  whispers  low,  apart : 
All  wake  within  me,  loud  or  low, 

God's  buried  Organ — in  my  heart ! 


54  "TO 


it  »J»  Q    n 

BELOVED  one,  whose  lovelit,  floating  form 

Steals  visits  to  my  dreams  in  heart  and  eyes — 

Where  art  thou,  Love  ?    My  heart  is  beating  warm ; 
From  dreams  alone  I  rise ! 

Long  have  I  known  thee :  first  I  saw  thee  come, 
With  laughter  ringing  from  thy  girlhood  years, 

Kissing  the  Future  with  a  face  in  bloom — 
The  Past  with  sun-bowed  tears  ! 

Steal  from  my  dreaming  to  my  waking  heart ! 

Awake !  within  my  soul  there  stands  alone 
Thy  marble  soul :  in  lovely  dreams  apart 

Thy  sweet  heart  fills  the  stone ! 

Oft  have  I  trembled  with  a  maiden  near, 

In  the  dear  dream  that  thou  wast  come  at  last, 

Vailed  in  her  face ;  but  I  am  dreaming  here — 
Sweet  dreams  woke  in  the  Past ! 

May  be  thou  never  yet  hadst  mortal  birth, 

Or  childhood  wings  to  Heaven  with  thee  have  flown, 

My  Eve  in  Paradise !   O'er  all  the  earth 
Must  Adam  walk  alone  ? 


«  TO ."  55 

O,  that  thou  breathest  earth  or  Heaven,  I  know ; 

I  call,  like  Orpheus,  into  shadowy  air : 
Where  art  thou,  Love  ?    My  heart  makes  answer  low — 

Thy  bridal  chamber— "  Where  ?" 

0  waken  in  my  morning  thy  pure  eyes — 
Thy  voice  from  angel-air  of  dreams  remove  ! 

Sweet  Chance,  blow  those  strange  seeds  of  Paradise 
Together,  flowering  love ! 

O  come,  while  yet  my  dream  is  in  warm  bloom — 
Come  ere  the  rose-vail  from  the  years  depart : 

Cottage  to  me  with  thee  is  palace :  Come — 
Thy  Palace  builds  my  Heart ! 


56  FROM   THE    CRADLE. 


FROM    THE    CRADLE. 

A  LITTLE  mound,  and  only  seen 

By  eyes  that  dream  of  lovely  death — 

A  tearful  plot  of  sunny  green 

Last  summer  kissed  with  flowery  breath. 

A  little  mound,  and  only  sought 
For  bird-like  footprints  in  the  Past, 

While  Autumn  writ  a  holy  thought 
On  leaf,  and  blade,  and  blossom  last. 

A  little  mound,  and  only  known 

By  tears  that  here  to  Faith  are  wed : 

To  one,  our  morrow  journey  done, 
We  all  are  orphans  of  the  dead. 

A  little  mound,  and  only  here, 

That  flowers  may  gather  sweeter  ground, 
And,  sunward  lifted  from  a  bier, 

A  life  with  holier  Hope  be  crowned. 


FROM   THE    CRADLE.  57 

A  little  mound,  and  only  made 

To  wear  the  earliest  wreath  of  sun, 
That  morn  through  heavenly  dews  shall  braid — 

The  last  while  heavenly  dews  are  on. 

For  Faith  a  child's  strong  hand  is  given — 
Smile  through  the  world  your  tearful  part ! 

The  flower  and  fragrance  bloom  in  heaven, 
Whose  root  is  sorrow  in  your  heart. 


58  SUNDOWN. 


SUNDOWN. 

WHILE  stealthy  breezes  kiss  to  frosty  gold 
The  swells  of  foliage  down  the  vale  serene, 
And  all  the  sunset  fills 
The  dream-land  of  the  hills, 
Now  all  the  enchantment  of  October  old 
Feels  a  cold  vail  steal  o'er  its  closing  scene. 

Low  sounds  of  Autumn  creep  along  the  plains, 

Through  the  wide  stillness  of  the  wood-lands  brown. 
"Where  the  still  waters  glean 
The  melancholy  scene  : 
The  cattle,  lingering  slow  through  river  lanes, 

Brush  yellowing  vines  that  swing  through  elm-trees 
down. 

The  foliage-distance  of  the  northern  air 

Wears  far  an  azure  slumber  through  the  light, 
Showing,  in  pictures  strange, 
The  stealthy  wand  of  change ; 
The  corn  shows  languid  breezes,  here  and  there, 
Faint-heard  o'er  all  the  bottoms  wide  and  bright. 


SUNDOWN.  59 

On  many  a  silent  circle  slowly  blowing, 

The  hawk,  in  sun-flushed  calm  suspended  high, 
With  careless  trust  of  might 
Slides  wing-wide  through  the  light — 
Now,  through  the  dreamy  dazzle,  golden  showing, 
Now,  drooping  down,  now  swinging  up  the  sky. 

Wind-worn  along  their  sunburnt  gables  old, 
The  barns  are  full  of  all  the  Indian  sun, 
In  golden  quiet,  wrought 
Like  webs  of  dreamy  thought, 
And  in  their  Winter  clasp  serenely  fold 

The  green  year's  April  promises  harvest-won. 

With  evening  bells  that  gather  low  or  loud, 
A  village,  through  the  distance,  poplar-bound, 
O'er  meadows  silent  grown 
And  lanes  with  crisp  leaves  strown, 
Lifts  up  one  spire,  a-flame,  against  a  cloud, 

That  slumbers  eastward,  slow  and  silver-crowned. 


60  THE   HARVEST-SPRING. 


THE    HARVEST-SPRING. 

SWEET  birds  sing  out  from  branches  green 

Of  fresh-leaved  maples  tall, 
O'er  rocky  banks,  whose  mosses  sheen 

Show  sunward  trickles  fall. 

There,  clothed  in  grasses,  fed  with  flowers, 

Half  hid  in  sun  and  shade, 
Joy-bosomed  toward  the  summer  hours, 

The  Harvest-Spring  is  laid. 

From  fronting  slopes  the  breezy  grain 

Runs  up  the  noontide  warm, 
Whilst  rustling  sickles  glitter  plain 

On  many  a  sunlit  arm. 

Till  oft,  when  strength  grows  faint  in  stir, 

Quick  beating  every  vein, 
Full  oft  each  calm-browed  harvester 

Drinks,  in  the  shade  again. 

Then  hearts  wear  health  like  dreams  of  Prime 
Glad  lifting  through  their  forms ; 

Hark  to  the  striking  sickle's  chime ! 
Large  sheaves  flash  from  their  arms  ! 


THE   HARVEST-SPRING.  61 

Thus  at  the  heaven-fringed  spring  of  Truth, 

In  fresher  spots  of  Life, 
Our  souls  drink  bright  a  sense  of  Youth, 

To  wear  our  harvest  strife. 

And  forward  on  the  light  we  bend 

A  weight  of  grain  and  flowers, 
And  toward  our  evening  sunlight  wend, 

Binding  our  sheaves  of  hours. 


THE    PIONEER    CHIMNEY. 


THE    PIONEER    CHIMNEY. 


EVERYWHERE  a  Land  of  Shadow, 

Not  a  footstep  echoes  o'er ; 
Song  of  peace  and  cry  of  battle, 

Dream-like,  dying  evermore. 

War-fires  in  the  vales  are  leaping, 
And  the  glaring  dance  of  war ; 

But  the  wildly-gleaming  faces 
Are  a  silent  dream  afar. 

O'er  the  valley,  clothed  in  shadow, 
Sunlit  stands  the  startled  deer, 

From  the  cliff  against  the  morning, 
Flashing  away  as  we  appear ! 

Lo  !  the  golden  vail  of  Morning 
O'er  that  Land  of  Shadow  cast — 

Where  the  tomahawk  lies  buried 
In  the  grave  of  all  the  Past ! 

Nothing  of  that  Land  remaining 
Save  these  old  historic  trees, 

Shaking  through  their  glittering  branches 
Dews  of  olden  memories. 


THE    PIONEER    CHIMNEY.  63 

Yes,  the  years  are  easy  numbered, 
But  the  Change  has  traveled  fast, 

And  how  far  behind,  forever, 
Lies  the  dead  forsaken  Past ! 

There  the  Vanished  Race  forever, 

Smoke  their  calumet  of  peace ; 
Fainter-gleaming  haunt  their  faces, 

Dim  old  shadows  of  the  trees  ! 

II. 

Low  among  the  greenery  hiding, 

Sent'nel  of  that  Shadow  Land, 
Near  the  highway  ever  roaring, 

See  an  old,  dead  Chimney  stand  ! 

Hiding  from  the  highway  golden, 

'Mong  the  cherries,  old  and  low, 
"While  their  blossoms  fill  the  breezes 

With  their  sunlit  fall  of  snow. 

Dead ! — no  more  a  flame  is  leaping 
Through  it  toward  the  wintry  cold ; 

Dead ! — no  more  the  smoke  is  wreathing 
Wood-lands  green  and  dim  and  old. 

Dead ! — no  more  an  azure  welcome, 

Far  to  eyes  that  distant  roam : 
Dead  ! — no  more  it  seems  uplifting 

Incense  from  the  heart  of  Home ! 


64  THE   PIONEER    CHIMNEY. 

Gone  the  homely  threshold  olden — 
Feet  that  joyed  and  sorrowed  o'er ; 

Gone  the  happy  waiting  faces ; 

Gone  the  smiles  that  oped  the  door. 

Gone  the  hands  that  shook  the  forest, 

Burying  in  the  April  earth 
Golden  seed  of  tears,  returning 

Here  their  smile  of  harvest  birth. 

Gone  the  hearts  that  made  pale  faces, 
When  the  wolves  came  through  the  cold. 

And  the  fireside  still  was  waiting, 
Through  the  twilight  snows  of  old. 

Yet  I  see  a  light  of  sparkles 

Reddening  up  old  evenings,  wild — 

Like  the  fancies  sent  to  wander 
Up  the  chimney  from  a  child. 

Hearts  among  the  years  may  wander 
Echoing  through  the  vanished  doors — 

Dreaming  dreams,  returning  hither, 
Gather  footfalls  from  the  floors ! 

Faith  and  Hope,  the  heaven-waiters, 
Learning  o'er  their  lessons  bright, 

Their  young  hearts  may  here  be  lifting 
"Wings  of  prayer  in  Heaven's  light ! 


THE   PIONEER    CHIMNEY.  65 

Children  here  that  dewed  life's  roses 

With  the  smile  of  early  tears, 
May  be  children  dreaming  hither — 

While  old  gray  men  lose  the  years ! 

They  may  hear  the  red  man's  voices — 
Through  the  nights  the  silence  start — 

Olden  nights  that  here  are  haunting 
Some  old  graveyard  of  the  heart ! 

You  may  find  them  growing  weary, 
Fainting  through  the  mighty  lands ; 

Painted  by  the  years  their  faces — 
Weary,  burying  years,  their  hands ! 

O,  the  Fireside  and  the  Threshold ! 

Where  the  joys  of  life  we  find ; 
By  the  beating  heart  forever, 

Both  together  they  are  joined  ! 

Nothing  speaks  their  language  olden 

But  the  Chimney,  crumbling  low, 
And  a  gleam  of  lighted  faces, 

From  a  fireside,  long  ago  ! 


66  FAITH. 


FAITH. 

BEAUTIFUL  Faith !     White  angel  with  no  wings  ! 

Blind,  lovely  eyes,  feeling  their  light  in  heaven  ! 

While  from  all  clouds  to  thy  lone  smile  is  given 
A  rainbow-bower,  where  Hope,  thy  sister,  sings. 
Strong  men,  who  only  smiled  to  conquer  death, 

Martyrs  whose  patience  leaped  to  heaven  a-flame, 

Most  holy  faces  painted  not  by  fame, 
Women  that  smiled  long  lives  of  loving  breath, 
Planting  in  childhood-hearts  the  rose  of  prayer 

Wide  dewless  desert-noons  may  wither  never  — 

Or  with  pure  lips  kissing  their  sleep  forever, 
On  thy  dear  bosom,  for  heaven's  morning  air — 
These  are  thy  followers  through  wide,  wandering  years, 
Blind  child  of  God !  half-lost,  found  in  this  vale  of  tears  ! 


PRAIRIE-FIRES.  67 


PRAIRIE-FIRES. 

How  bright  this  dim  Autumnal  eve, 

While  the  wild  Twilight  clings  around, 
Clothing  the  silence  everywhere, 

With  scarce  a  dream  of  sound ! 

The  high  horizon's  northern  line, 

With  many  a  silent-leaping  spire, 
Seems  a  dark  shore — a  sea  a-flame — 
Quick,  crawling  waves  of  fire ! 

I  stand  in  golden  solitude, 

October  breathing  low  and  chill, 

And  watch  the  far-off  leaps  of  flame 

Playing  the  wind's  wild  will ! 

I  see  the  vanished  autumns  blown 

Through  years  that  leave  no  leaves  He  dead, 
To  rustle  through  the  Past  and  stir 
Beneath  historic  tread ; 

These  boundless  fields  of  green,  once  more, 

Old  summers'  rustling  sunshine  stir, 
And  wild,  wide  autumns  blowing  Fire, 
A  lone  bright  harvester ! 


8  PRAIRIE-FIRES. 

Ere  the  wide  highway  of  the  sun 

Was  full  of  Emigration's  dust ; 
Ere  the  wide  River,  wearing  heaven, 
A  sunny  fountain  thrust. 

I  see  wide  terror  blown  before — 

Wild  steeds,  wild  herds  of  bison  here, 
And,  blown  before  the  flying  flame, 
The  flying-footed  deer ! 

Lone  wagons  bivouack'd  in  the  flames 

That,  long  ago,  flashed  wildly  past : 
Faces,  from  that  bright  solitude, 
A  gleam  of  terror  cast ! 

Lone  trains  with  drowsy  bells  that  rang 

Along  red  twilights  dying  slow, 
Whose  wheels  turned  wearily  their  way 
Through  autumns,  long  ago. 

A  gleam  of  faces  like  a  dream ! 

No  history  after  nor  before — 
Inside  the  horizon  with  the  Flames — 
The  Flames ! — nobody  more ! 

That  Vision  vanishes  in  me — 

That  Reaper  swift,  and  wild  and  bright ! 
Another  steals  through  me — through  all 
The  solitude,  to-night. 


PRAIRIE-FIRES.  69 

The  horizon  lightens  everywhere ; 

Wide  sunshine  hangs  in  breezy  maize : 
And,  everywhere,  the  voice  of  Man, 
And  Childhood's  sunny  lays. 

Far  city  spires  against  the  sun — 

White  villages  of  quiet  sweet — 
And,  echoes  for  the  heaven  above, 

Homes  smiling  through  the  wheat. 

No  longer,  driven  by  winds,  the  Fire 
Flashes  yon  flaming  sickle  fleet, 
But,  numberless  as  the  stars  of  heaven, 
Home's  window-stars  shine  sweet ! 


70  THE    CHURCH   PATH. 


THE    CHURCH   PATH 

WHILE  my  footsteps  rustle  slow 
Fallen  leaves  of  long  ago, 
In  my  heart  they  rise  to-night, 
Far-off  mornings  blest  and  bright ! 
When  the  weary  week  at  rest 
Slept  upon  the  Sabbath's  breast, 
(As  a  mortal  orphan  weeping 
To  an  angel's  bosom  creeping). 
All  their  sunshine  from  the  Past 
Through  these  twilight  leaves  is  cast : 
From  the  June-green  boughs  above 
Flutters  out  the  startled  dove, 
Or  in  sweet  contented  mood 
Fills  the  Sabbath  neighborhood. 
Looking  at  the  sun,  so  bright > 
Flutter  and  hide  the  leaves  in  light ; 
Everywhere  the  birds  are  singing ! 
Suddenly  a  bell  is  ringing, 
While  I  wander  here  apart : 
'Tis  the  Past  rings  in  my  heart ! 


THE    CHURCH   PATH.  71 

Years  have  walked  this  pathway  old 
Under  green  and  over  gold — 
In  their  graves  these  years  are  gone 
With  the  leaves  they  trod  upon — 
Vanished  years :  and  every  one 
Walked  with  me  in  shade  and  sun, 
Under  clouds,  through  rainbows  bright, 
Nights  made  day  and  days  made  night : 
Joys  that  leafed  my  heart  with  May, 
Rustle  round  my  lonely  way — 
Fallen  leaves  my  footsteps  start : 
Their  bright  trees  grew  in  my  heart ! 

Boys  that  kissed  the  Houris  then, 
Wandered — wandering,  weary  men ! 
Maidens  blithe  and  bright  and  fair, 
Guests  of  beauty  to  the  air, 
Dreams  were  cradled  in  their  eyes : 
Eves — we  came  from  Paradise ! 
To  the  chapel  clothed  in  white — 

Roses — white  the  bridal  train : 
To  the  chapel  clothed  in  white — 

Lilies — black  the  funeral  train ! 
Sad  and  glad  and  grave  and  gay 
Years  have  walked  with  all  away ; 
From  the  paths  that  blessed  their  feet, 
Blessing  dust  and  dewing  heat ; 


72  THE    CHURCH   PATH. 

From  the  folded  dream  of  beauty, 
Open  rose  of  Woman'  duty ; 
For  the  path  with  dew  impearled, 
Dusty  street  of  the  wide  world ! 

Through  the  Church-path  often  they 
"Wander,  girls  in  girlhood's  May : 
Through  their  hearts  and  eyes  a-dreaming, 
Eden-vistas  strangely  gleaming ; 
Smiles  that  open  brighter  skies — 
Tears  go  back  to  Paradise ! 

Ah,  the  sunny  time  departs  : 
Weary  hands  and  weary  hearts ! 
Through  the  world  they  beat  their  way, 
Dreaming  golden,  growing  gray ; 
Lose  the  rose-wreath,  lose  the  rhyme, 
Giving  weary  hands  to  Time — 
Weary  tears  to  days  of  sorrow, 
Weary  smiles  to  clouded  morrow. 
Only  when  the  flame  crawls  low 
In  the  embers — ashes  slow — 
From  the  girl  and  from  the  boy, 
Memory  gleans  fresh  sheaves  of  joy ! 

If  to  all  whose  prints  are  here 
All  that  Past  could  reappear — 
If  the  weary  feet  could  turn 
From  the  valleys  dark  and  dern — 


THE    CHURCH    PATH.  73 

If  the  desert  eyes  no  more 
On  the  Sphinx's  face  would  pore — 
If  the  lips  that  thirst  in  vain 
Youth's  enchanted  draught  could  drain — 
If  once  more  old  faces  sweet 
Here  could  blossom — here  could  beat 
Hearts  (a  hearse  and  funeral  train) 
Blithe  in  this  old  Path  again — 
What  a  dusty  company 
Would  go  down — in  Memory ! 
Hearts  of  girls  and  hearts  of  boys, 
Emptying  graves  of  Hopes  and  Joys  ! 

In  the  silence — in  the  chill 
Of  the  autumnal  evening  still — 
Through  the  golden  evenfall — 
While  the  year  is  'neath  the  pall 
Of  the  fallen,  falling  leaves, 
And  the  breeze,  that,  sighing,  heaves, 
Knows  a  spirit — here  I  tread, 
Lone  with  Memory's  risen  dead, 
While  my  footsteps  startle  slow 
Ghost-like  leaves  of  long  ago : 
Ghost-like  memories  seem  to  be 
Shrouded,  as  they  come  to  me. 
From  Life's  busy  graves  they  fill, 
And  from  those  green,  low,  and  still 
(Yonder  gleaming  where  the  breeze 
Shivers  with  moonrise  through  the  trees ; 


74  A  POET'S  WREATHING. 

Graves  that  names  remembered  keep : 
There — alas !  but  names — they  sleep)  : 
Memories  leave  those  days  of  gold, 
Angels,  in  the  Church  path  old ! 


A   POET'S   WREATHING. 

THOUGH  poor  the  blossom-words  I  breathe  you, 

Oh,  magic  be  their  power: 
Loveliest  of  lovely  wreaths  shall  wreathe  you — 

If  silent  wishes  flower! 


THE    LETTER    CHEST.  75 


THE    LETTER   CHEST. 

You  ask,  if  haply  gems  be  there  ? 

Gems  from  the  heart's  deep  mine ! 
Glad  friendships  gathered  long  ago — 

The  grave  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 
Familiar  hands,  clasped  far,  but  warm, 

Clasp  there,  o'er  desert  years  apart ; 
Old  words  familiar  faces  wear — 

Old  autographs  of  heart ! 

No !  fling  them  not  into  the  flames ! 

Dim,  old  words,  crumbling  one  by  one, 
Would  start,  like  ghosts,  into  our  eyes — 

Some  Memory's  dying  Sun ! 
Kindle  within  our  hearts  their  flame ! 

Feeling  their  dreamy  eloquence, 
The  Past — whose  flowers  in  these  were  sown- 

Will  rise  like  frankincense ! 

The  world,  in  them,  turns  ever  new ; 

Dead  summers  live  in  flowers,  and  sing ; 
Old  June-lands  show  their  roses  through — 

Heaven  breathes  the  older  Spring ! 


76  THE    LETTER    CHEST. 

Those  dear  old  words  !  they  kept  glad  time 
In  sunny  days,  and  rainy  weather, 

And  to  the  music  of  their  feet 
Still,  all  things  sing  together ! 

Old  lips  that  speak  no  more,  I  hear ; 

Old  vanished  faces,  brightening  come ; 
Old  footsteps  travel  strangely  near 

From  happy  doors  of  Home ! 
I  feel  the  red  blood  of  the  Past 

Pulse  through  Time's  veins  again,  in  light, 
I  see  their  warm  hands,  from  their  hearts, 

Extended  while  they  write ! 


IN   MARCH.  77 


IN   MARCH. 

WELCOME,  sweet  Wind;  you  bring 

A  soul  of  Spring 
From  some  far  fragrant  rose, 

That  blows 
In  some  far  coming  May,  or  half-forgotten  Spring. 

Welcome,  sweet  dream ;  you  wear 

Your  wings  of  air 
From  some  far  isle  of  love — 

A  dove, 
Flying  with  happy  bough  from  some  far,  lovelier  air. 

What  though  my  sweet  wind  knows 

A  vanished  rose, 
My  dream  the  Past,  alone, 

Has  known  ? 
Bloom  from  my  heart,  sweet   dream — climb  from  my 

heart,  sweet  rose ! 


78  THE    WESTERN    PIONEER. 


THE    WESTERN   PIONEER. 

[The  Bees  are  said  to  hare  ever  swarmed  westward  before  the  steps  of  the 
whites] 

INTO  the  prairies'  boundless  blossom, 
Into  the  Wide  West's  sunburnt  bosom, 

The  earliest  emigrants  came : 
The  flowers,  like  sunny  miracles,  grew 
Before  them,  fragrant,  from  the  dew, 

Filling  the  grass  like  flame ! 

From  some  old  land  of  song  and  life — 
Of  man,  in  manhood's  glowing  strife, 

Departing  all  alone, 

And  journeying  with  the  journeying  sun, 
They  came — their  busy  empire  won — 

Before  the  white  man  known. 

The  Indian  saw  the  moving  Bees, 

From  flower  to  flower,  in  dream-like  breeze 

Blowing  their  pilgrim  way ; 
Or,  deep  in  honey  of  the  flower, 
Hanging  in  sunshine  hour  by  hour, 

Dream  through  the  dreaming  day. 


THE    WESTERN   PIONEER.  79 

He  saw  the  Future's  garment  gleam 

O'er  mounds  of  tribes  and  legend-stream — 

O'er  the  sweet  waste  of  flowers ; 
He  saw  his  hunting  ground — the  Past ! 
Lit  with  the  domes  of  cities  vast — 

Glory  of  spires  and  towers ! 

Those  other  Bees !  He  felt — he  saw, 
With  sorrowing  eye,  in  dreamy  awe, 

The  blossom  of  the  West 
Thrill  with  the  sunny-toiling  Bees 
Of  busy  Freedom,  happy  Peace — 

Wide  blessings  and  the  blest. 

They  come !  They  came  !    Lo !  they  are  here  ! 
The  Indian  heart-beat  everywhere 

Starts  echoes  wild  no  more; 
The  leaves  have  fallen  from  his  trees 
Of  life :   dead  leaves,  in  every  breeze, 

Rustle  forevermore ! 


WM.  D.  HOWELLS. 


POEMS. 


PRELUDE. 

IN  March  the  earliest  blue-bird  came 
And  caroled  from  the  orchard-tree, 
His  little,  tremulous  songs  to  me, 

And  called  upon  the  summer's  name. 

And  made  old  summers  in  my  heart, 
All  sweet  with  flower  and  sun  again ; 
So  that  I  said,  "  O  not  in  vain 

Shall  be  thy  lay  of  little  art, 

"  Though  never  summer  sun  may  glow, 
Nor  summer  flower  for  thee  may  bloom ; 
Though  Winter  turn  in  sudden  gloom, 
And  drowse  the  stirring  Spring  with  snow." 

And  learned  to  trust,  if  I  should  call 

Upon  the  sacred  name  of  Song, 

Though  chill  through  March  I  languish  long, 
And  never  feel  the  May  at  all. 


84  PRELUDE. 

Yet  may  I  touch,  in  some  who  hear, 
The  hearts,  wherein  old  songs  asleep, 
"Wait  but  the  feeblest  touch  to  leap 

In  music  sweet  as  summer  air ! 

I  sing  in  March  brief  blue-bird  lays 
And  hope  a  May,  and  do  not  know : 
May  be,  the  heaven  is  full  of  snow — 

May  be,  there  open  Summer  days. 


THE   MOVERS.  85 


THE    MOVERS. 


PARTING  was  over  at  last,  and  all  the  good-byes  had  been 
spoken. 

Up  the  long  hill-side  the  white-tented  wagon  moved  slowly, 

Bearing  the  mother  and  children,  while  onward  before  them 
the  father 

Trudged  with  his  gun  on  his  arm,  and  the  faithful  house- 
dog beside  him, 

Grave  and  sedate,  as  if  knowing  the  sorrowful  thoughts  of 
his  master. 

April  was  in  her  prime,  and  the  day  in  its  dewy  awaking : 
Like  a  great  flower,  afar  on  the  crest  of  the  eastern  wood- 
land, 

Goldenly  bloomed  the  sun,  and  over  the  beautiful  valley, 
Dim  with  its  dew  and  shadow,  and  bright  with  its  dream 

of  a  river, 

Looked  to  the  western  hills,  and  shone  on  the  humble  pro- 
cession, 

Paining  with  splendor  the  children's  eyes,  and  the  heart 
of  the  mother. 


86  THE   MOVERS. 

Beauty,  and  fragrance,  and  song  filled  the  air  like  a  pal- 
pable presence. 

Sweet  was  the  smell  of  the  dewy  leaves  and  the  flowers 
in  the  wild-wood, 

Fair  the  long  reaches  of  sun  and  shade  in  the  aisles  of  the 
forest. 

Glad  of  the  spring,  and  of  love,  and  of  morning,  the  wild 
birds  were  singing: 

Jays  to  each  other  called  harshly,  then  mellowly  fluted 
together; 

Sang  the  oriole  songs  as  golden  and  gay  as  his  plumage ; 

Pensively  piped  the  querulous  quails  their  greetings  un- 
frequent, 

While,  on  the  meadow  elm,  the  meadow  lark  gushed  forth 
in  music, 

Kapt,  exultant  and  shaken,  with  the  great  joy  of  his  sing- 
ing; 

Over  the  river,  loud-chattering,  aloft  in  the  ah*,  the  king- 
fisher, 

Hung,  ere  dropped,  like  a  bolt  in  the  water  beneath  him ; 

Gossiping,  out  of  the  bank,  flew  myriad  twittering  swal- 
lows; 

And  in  the  boughs  of  the  sycamore  quarreled  and  clamor- 
ed the  blackbirds. 

Never  for  these  things  a  moment  halted  the  Movers,  but 
onward, 

Up  the  long  hillside  the  white-tented  wagon  moved  slowly. 


THE   MOVERS.  87 

Till,  on  the  summit,  that  overlooked  all  the  beautiful  val- 
ley, 

Trembling  and  spent,  the  horses  came  to  a  standstill  un- 
bidden ; 

Then  from  the  wagon  the  mother  in  silence  got  down  with 
her  children, 

Came,  and  stood  by  the  father,  and  rested  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

Long  together  they  gazed  on  the  beautiful  valley  before 
them; 

Looked  on  the  well-known  fields  that  stretched  away  to 
the  woodlands, 

Where,  in  the  dark  lines  of  green,  showed  the  milk-white 
crest  of  the  dogwood, 

Snow  of  wild-plums  in  bloom,  and  crimson  tints  of  the 
red-bud ; 

Looked  on  the  pasture-fields  where  the  cattle  were  lazily 
grazing — 

Softly,  and  sweet,  and  thin,  came  the  faint,  far  notes  of  the 
cow-bells ; — 

Looked  on  the  oft-trodden  lanes,  with  their  elder  and  black- 
berry borders, 

Looked  on  the  orchard,  a  bloomy  sea,  with  its  billows  of 
blossoms. 

Fair  was  the  scene,  yet  suddenly  strange  and  all  unfa- 
miliar, 

Like  as  the  faces  of  friends,  when  the  word  of  farewell 
has  been  spoken. 


88  THE   MOVERS. 

Long  together  they  gazed ;  then  at  last  on  the  little  log- 
cabin, — 

Home  for  so  many  years,  now  home  no  longer  forever, — 
Rested  their  tearless  eyes  in  the  silent  rapture  of  anguish. 
Up  on  the  morning  air,  no  column  of  smoke  from  the 

chimney 
Wavering,  silver  and  azure,  rose,  fading  and  brightening 

ever; 
Shut  was  the  door  where  yesterday  morning  the  children 

were  playing, — 
Lit  with  a  gleam  of  the  sun  the  window  stared  up  at  them 

blindly. 
Cold  was  the  hearthstone  now,  and  the  place  was  forsaken 

and  empty. 
Empty  ?  Ah  no !  but  haunted  by  thronging  and  tenderest 

fancies, 
Sad  recollections  of  all  that  had  ever  been,  of  sorrow  or 

gladness. 

Once  more  they  sat  in  the  glow  of  the  wide  red  fire  in 

the  winter, 
Once  more  they  sat  by  the  door  in  the  cool  of  the  still 

summer  evening, 
Once  more  the  mother  seemed  to  be  singing  her  babe  there 

to  slumber, 
Once  more  the  father  beheld  her  weep  o'er  the  child  that 

was  dying, 
Once  more  the  place  was  peopled  by  all  the  Past's  sorrow 

and  gladness ! 


THE    MOVERS.  89 

Neither  might  speak  for  the  thoughts  that  come  crowding 

their  hearts  so, 

Till,  in  their  ignorant  sorrow  aloud,  the  children  lamented ; 
Then  was  the  spell  of  silence  dissolved,  and  the  father 

and  mother 
Burst  into  tears  and  embraced,  and  turned  their  dim  eyes 

to  the  westward. 


90  THE    OLD    BOUQUET. 


THE   OLD  BOUQUET. 

SUCH  odd  things  gather  on  one's  hands  ! 

I  found  an  old  bouquet 
(The  buds  all  faded  whity-brown) 

Among  forgotten  things  to-day. 

I  recollect  'twas  Clarence  Young 

That  gave  it,  long  ago — 
0,  years  and  years,  my  child — how  long, 

Ah  me !  I  don't  exactly  know. 

We  quarreled — we  were  foolish  both — 

He  married  Susan  Gray, 
Who  died  last  summer — and  I  heard 

That  he  was  buried  yesterday. 

There's  something  blurs  my  glasses,  dear ; 

I  wish  you'd  read  to  me 
These  scribbled  lines  I  found  among 

The  faded  flowers.     Can  you  see  ? 

Within  this  golden-hearted  rose 

(Sad  in  their  sweet  eclipse) 
I  send  Regrets.     Ah,  smile  them  free 

To  fly  in  kisses  to  your  lips. 


THE    OLD    BOUQUET.  91 

A  silly  rhyme !     I  never  knew 

What  there  the  boy  had  writ — 
Alas !  I  smiled  not ! — I'm  too  old, 

And  you  too  young,  to  talk  of  it ! 

Ah  me !  we  quarreled.    We  were  fools. 

He  married  Susan  Gray, 
Who  died  last  summer — and  I  heard 

That  he  was  buried  yesterday. 


92  THROUGH   THE   MEADOW. 


THROUGH   THE   MEADOW. 

THE  summer  sun  was  soft  and  bland, 
As  they  went  through  the  meadow  land. 

The  little  wind  that  hardly  shook 
The  silver  of  the  sleeping  brook, 
Blew  the  gold  hair  about  her  eyes, — 
A  mystery  of  mysteries ! 
So  he  must  often  pause,  and  stoop, 
And  all  the  wanton  ringlets  loop, 
Behind  her  dainty  ear — emprise 
Of  slow  event  and  many  sighs. 

Across  the  stream  was  scarce  a  step — 
And  yet  she  feared  to  try  the  leap ; 
And  he,  to  still  her  sweet  alarm, 
Must  lift  her  over  on  his  arm. 

She  could  not  keep  the  narrow  way, 
For  still  the  little  feet  would  stray, 
And  ever  must  he  bend  t'  undo 
The  tangled  grasses  from  her  shoe — 
From  dainty  rose-bud  lips  in  pout, 
Must  kiss  the  perfect  flower  out ! 

Ah !  little  coquette !     Fair  deceit ! 
Some  things  are  bitter  that  were  sweet. 


GONE.  93 


GONE. 

Is  IT  the  shrewd  October  wind 
Brings  the  tears  into  her  eyes  ? 

Does  it  blow  so  strong  that  she  must  fetch 
Her  breath  in  sudden  sighs  ? 

The  sound  of  his  horse's  feet  grows  faint, 
The  Rider  has  passed  from  sight ; 

The  day  dies  out  of  the  crimson  west, 
And  coldly  falls  the  night. 

She  presses  her  tremulous  fingers  tight 

Against  her  closed  eyes, 
And  on  the  lonesome  threshold  there, 

She  cowers  down  and  cries. 


94  THE    THROSTLE. 


THE   THROSTLE. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINE. 

IN  the  wold  I  wander  weeping ; 

The  throstle  sits  on  high, 
She  springs  and  sings  so  gaily — 
"  Why  art  so  sad  ?  ah  why  ?" 

"  Nay,  ask  thy  sisters,  the  swallows, 

They  can  tell  thee,  O  throstle  gay ! 
For  their  nests  are  built  at  the  window 
Of  my  darling,  far  away." 


THE   AUTUMN-LAND.  95 


THE   AUTUMN-LAND. 

AT  last,  the  sorrowing  wind 
Hath  moaned  itself  to  sleep — 

Over  all  the  autumn-land 
Broods  silence  strange  and  deep. 

Like  bright  but  songless  birds 

Along  the  naked  leas, 
All  day  the  crimson  leaves  have  flown, 

Vexed  by  the  wayward  breeze. 

The  while  the  stricken  elms 

Through  all  their  boughs  have  sighed 
For  the  summer  birds  that  sang, 

The  summer  flowers  that  died. 

Night  falls.    I  scarce  can  see 
The  cattle  where  they  droop 

Together  about  the  barnyard  bars, 
A  mute  and  steadfast  group. 

Ah !  well  that  the  sorrowing  wind 
Hath  moaned  itself  asleep ! 

That  over  the  autumn-land 
Broods  silence  dull  and  deep ! 


96  THE   AUTUMN-LAND. 

For  all  too  long  hath  been 
The  brief  November  day, 

Of  barren  field  and  somber  wold, 
And  sky  of  sullen  gray.        , 

Too  long  the  leaves  were  vexed, 
Too  long  the  sad  elms  sighed 

For  the  summer  birds  that  sang, 
The  summer  flowers  that  died. 

Alas !  that  Autumn-land 

Where  the  sad  wind  never  sleeps ; 

Where  over  the  summer-mourning  soul 
No  silence  ever  creeps ; 

Where  the  thoughts  are  ever  vexed, 
The  heart  is  ever  tried — 

O !  the  summer  birds  that  sang, 
The  summer  flowers  that  died ! 


ALL    FOUR.  97 


ALL    FOUR. 

AN  AFTERNOON  PICTURE. 

A  LITTLE  child  before  the  shady  door, 
A  kitten  lying  on  the  cottage  floor — 
Beneath  a  locust  tree,  from  whose  white  bloom 
A  passing  breeze  shook  out  a  rich  perfume, 
An  old  man  sitting  in  his  easy  chair — 
A  hale  old  man,  with  silver-flowing  hair — 
The  house-dog  stretched  beneath  his  master's  feet, 
On  bed  of  cool,  green  grasses,  dark  and  sweet : 
And  dog,  and  child,  and  cat  on  cottage  floor, 
And  hale  old  man,  were  wrapped  in  sleep — all  four ! 

A  partridge,  piping  in  the  dead'ning  near, 
Called  to  "Bob  White,"  in  whistle  soft  and  clear; 
From  marshy  pasture  rose  a  lark  in  mirth, 
Spilled  his  brief  song,  and  silent  sunk  to  earth ; 
In  a  new-furrowed  field,  a  noisy  crew 
Of  blackbirds  picked  the  worms  the  plow  up-threw ; 
The  panting  farmer,  as  he  held  the  plow, 
With  his  straw-hat  brim  fanned  his  streaming  brow : 
While  dog,  and  child,  and  cat  on  cottage  floor, 
And  hale  old  man,  slept  sound  and  cool — all  four ! 

Loud  crows  uprising  from  the  neighboring  field, 
With  cawings  hoarse,  in  lazy  circles  wheeled, 


98  ALL    FOUR. 

Then  downward  sank  again  in  less'ning  rings, 
Flashing  the  sunlight  from  their  sable  wings ; 
Higher  up  a  hawk,  too,  circled — cunning  spy, 
Watching  the  barn-yard  with  a  hungry  eye, 
Where  Chanticleer  with  wings  distended  stood, 
And  clucking  Partlet  called  her  screaming  brood: 
While  dog,  and  child,  and  cat  on  cottage  floor, 
And  gray  old  man,  slept  sound  and  sweet — all  four ! 

In  dreams  through  memory  land  the  old  man  strayed, 
Re-trod  his  traveled  path — and  child-like  played 
Along  each  stream,  upon  each  flowery  plain — 
Lived  all  his  happy  boy-life  o'er  again ; 
In  dreams  the  child,  through  hope's  bright  fairy-land, 
Roamed  glad  and  far  with  loving  angel  band, 
Saw  sights  that  childhood  only  dreaming,  sees, 
Marvelous  flowers,  and  birds,  and  streams,  and  trees : 
But  dog  and  cat  a  dreamless  slumber  slept, 
While  round  to  four,  the  clock's  slow  finger  crept ! 

Sudden  a  white  cloud  vailed  the  sun's  bright  face — 
Another  joined  it  in  its  resting-place — 
The  sky  that,  erewhile,  bent  an  arch  of  blue, 
Grew  black  with  clouds — with  tempest  threatening  grew ; 
Quick-flashing  lightnings  rent  the  storm  in  twain, 
And  in  its  bosom  sheathed  themselves  again ; 
From  its  torn  breast  the  sky  its  life-tide  spills, 
And  its  hoarse  moans  re-echo  through  the  hills, 
And  dog,  and  child,  and  cat  on  cottage  floor, 
And  hale  old  man,  are  roused  from  sleep — all  four. 


THISTLES.  99 


THISTLES. 

i. 

I  PLUCKED  them  from  the  weedy  lane, 
And  from  the  barren  hillside-field, 
Where  years  ago,  for  goodlier  yield, 

The  sterile  soil  was  sown  in  vain. 

ii. 

In  every  desolate  place  they  grow — 
Neglected  gardens,  stony  lands, 
And  acres  tilled  by  drunken  hands — 

In  baleful  beauty,  thrive  and  blow. 

in. 

Armed  well,  they  keep  the  land  alone, 
Stinging  all  gentle  flowers  to  death, 
And  filling  the  sweet  zephyr's  breath 

"With  poison  seeds  for  lands  unknown. 

IV. 

I  send  them  to  you !    You,  whose  scorn 
So  glad  a  soul  made  desolate, 
And  left  unto  the  desert-fate 

Of  thistle-bloom  and  thistle-thorn ! 


100  THISTLES. 

V. 

And  so  I  send  my  thistle  seeds, 
And  trust  to  find  them  bloomed  again 
In  that  rude  heart  where  Love,  in  vain, 

Toiled  in  the  rocks  and  evil  weeds. 

VI. 

Blow,  thistles,  blow !  and  ripe  and  fall 

Upon  the  sterile  soil  below, 

Where  never  fragrant  flower  shall  grow — 
Lo!  yours  the  desert  place  is  all! 


THE   MYSTERIES.  101 


THE  MYSTERIES. 

ONCE  on  my  mother's  breast,  a  child,  I  crept, 

Holding  my  breath- 
There  safe  and  sad  lay  shuddering,  and  wept 

At  the  dark  mystery  of  Death. 

Weary  and  weak,  and  worn  with  all  unrest, 

Spent  with  the  strife — 
O  mother,  let  me  weep  upon  thy  breast 

At  the  sad  mystery  of  Life. 


102  THE    SHEPHERD. 


THE   SHEPHERD. 

FROM  THE  GERM  AX  OF  UHLAND. 

THE  comely  shepherd  loitered  by 

The  castle  of  the  king ; 
The  princess  from  the  turrets  gazed 

With  love's  sweet  sorrowing. 

She  called  to  him  a  tender  word — 
"  0  were  I  down  by  thee,  my  dear ! 

How  whitely  show  the  lambkins  there, 
How  red  the  flow'rets  here !" 

The  shepherd  called  to  her  again — 
"  0  earnest  thou  but  down  to  me ; 

How  blossom  there  thy  cheeks  so  red — 
How  white  thine  armes  be." 

And  as  he  now  in  silent  pain 

His  flock  at  every  dawning  drove, 

He  looked  above,  till  on  the  tower 
Appeared  his  tender  love. 

Then  called  he  joyfully  to  her, 

"  O  welcome,  princess,  sweet  and  fair  F 
And  sweetly  still  she  answered  him, 

"  O  thanks!  thou  shepherd  dear." 


THE    SARCASTIC    FAIR. 

The  winter  passed,  the  spring  appeared, 
The  flowers  were  blooming  as  before ; 

The  shepherd  loitered  by  the  tower, 
But  she  appeared  no  more. 

He  called  to  her,  all  sorrowful, 

"  O,  welcome,  princess,  sweet  and  fair !" — 
A  phantom  voice  replied  to  him, 

**  Adieu,  thou  shepherd  dear." 


103 


THE   SARCASTIC   FAIR. 

HER  mouth  is  a  honey-blossom, 
No  doubt,  as  the  poet  sings  ; 

But  within  her  lips,  the  petals, 
Lurks  a  cruel  bee,  that  stings. 


104  EVENING  VOICES. 


EVENING    VOICES. 

BROKEN  snatch  of  cow-boy's  song, 
Swelling  high  and  sinking  low, 

Mingles,  as  he  plods  along, 
With  the  lowing  of  his  cow. 

Wagon  rattling  o'er  the  road, 

(White  top  gleaming  like  a  sail), 

Wakes  the  echoes  harsh  and  loud, 
Of  the  dusk  and  distant  vale. 

On  the  night-air  faintly  swell, 
From  the  whitely-peopled  meads, 

Silver  sounds  of  lambkin's  bell, 
Singly  tinkling  while  it  feeds. 

On  the  listless  winds  that  pass, 
Insects  fling  their  harmonies ; 

Crickets  chirping  in  the  grass, 
Locusts  trilling  in  the  trees : 

And  like  music  of  a  Fay, 

'Mong  the  maple's  foliage  hid, 

Comes  thy  sad  and  changeless  lay, 
Melancholy  Katy-did !  — 


EVENING   VOICES.  105 

Comes  the  dull  and  sullen  roar 

Of  the  distant  waterfall, 
Where  the  swift  waves  foam  and  pour, 

Wrapped  in  vapors  like  a  pall. 

Sweetly  mingled,  yet  distinct, 

Countless  witching  voices  are ; 
Sweetly  various,  sweetly  linked, 

Trembling  on  the  dewy  air. 


106  THE  HEAVEN- WREATH. 


THE    HEAVEN-WREATH. 

THE  blooming  halos  of  the  garden  trees, 
All  sweetly  murmurous  with  clustering  bees, 
Fling  a  rich  odor  on  the  air  around ; 
And  broad,  cool  shadows  on  the  grassy  ground ; 
And  in  their  shade  a  little  child  at  play, 
Whileth  the  hours  through  all  the  sunny  day. 

A  placid  child,  that  never  strayeth  out 
Into  the  sunshine  with  unruly  shout, 
But  sitteth  still,  the  fragrant  boughs  beneath, 
Striving  in  vain  to  weave  himself  a  wreath ; 
About  his  feet  blue  violets  are  strown, 
And  golden  dandelions  and  willows  thrown. 

The  children  watch  him  as  he  sitteth  there, 

With  earnest  mien,  and  sweet,  abstracted  air ; 

And  while  they  gaze,  they  cease  their  boisterous  sport, 

And  speak  of  him  in  sober,  childish  sort; 

And  oft  they  call  their  mother  to  behold 

His  fruitless  toil,  and  flowers  of  blue  and  gold. 


THE   HEAVEN-WREATH.  107 

But  as  the  mother  looketh  on  her  child, 

So  young,  so  fair,  and  so  unearthly  mild, 

Though  she  would  haply  have  them  seem  more  bright, 

Her  eyes  grow  dimmer  for  the  simple  sight; 

And  her  pained  heart  feels  with  foreboding  love, 

Fond  Death  hath  woven  him  a  wreath  above. 


108  LIEBESWONNE. 


LIEBESWONNE. 

IN  my  rhyme  I  fable  anguish, 
Feigning  that  my  love  is  dead, 

Playing  at  a  game  of  sadness, 
Singing  hope  forever  fled, — 

Trailing  the  slow  robes  of  mourning, 
Grieving,  with  the  player's  art, 

With  the  languid  palms  of  sorrow 
Folded  on  a  dancing  heart. 

I  must  mix  my  love  with  death-dust, 
Lest  the  draught  should  make  me  mad,- 

I  must  make  believe  at  sorrow, 
Lest  I  perish,  over-glad. 


THE   VIOLETS.  109 


THE    VIOLETS. 

FROM  THE  GKRMAX  OF   LKICAU. 
I. 

AFTER  long  cold,  the  wind  blows  soft  and  mild, 
And  fair  young  violets  brings  the  beggar-child. 

ii. 

Ah!  sad  to  think  the  sweetest  gift  of  spring 
To  me  the  child  of  Misery  must  bring. 

in. 

And  yet  this  earnest  of  the  day  to  me, 
Is  dearer  from  hand  of  Misery. 

IV. 

For  to  the  Future  our  own  grief  doth  bring 
The  gentle  promises  of  coming  spring. 


110  SONNET. 


SONNET. 

ALONE  I  wander  o'er  the  path  we  pressed 
With  lingering  footsteps  in  the  Long-ago, 
And  the  soft  summer  moon  hangs  warm  and  low, 

"While  languid  stars  are  faint  through  all  the  "West, 

And  though  the  form  that  then  mine  arm  caressed, 
Thrilling  to  feel  the  heart's  quick  ebb  and  flow, 
Its  zoning  clasp  no  more  shall  ever  know, 

Still,  still  I  wander  with  a  sweet  unrest: 

For  silver  whispers  haunt  the  dreamy  air, 
Like  ghosts  of  words  I  never  may  forget ; 

The  smiles,  the  welcome  thou  wert  wont  to  wear, 
Meet  my  fond  seeking  as  of  yore  they  met ; 

And  at  my  side,  grief-sanctified  and  rare, 
The  glory  of  thy  presence  lingers  yet. 


THE    DEATH    OF   MAY.  Ill 


THE    DEATH    OF    MAY. 

"  O,  I  am  weary !"  sighed  the  languid  May, 
And  so  lay  down,  and  on  the  breast  of  June 
Her  fair  head  pillowing,  breathed  away  her  life. 
None  knew  that  she  was  dying,  and  the  stars 
Shone  bright  and  tearless  from  their  far-off  sky, 
And  kindled  other  stars  in  lake  and  river ; 
The  south  wind  whispered  lovingly  to  her 
That  slept  so  long ;  and  lifted  her  bright  hair, 
And  kissed  her  playfully,  yet  never  dreamed 
That  May  was  dead !     Earth  felt  not  her  deep  loss, 
But  glad  in  presence  of  the  lusty  June, 
Nor  grieved  nor  cared  for  one  who  was  no  more. 
And  the  sad  soul  of  May,  that  lingered  nigh, 
Was  panged  with  bitterness,  to  be  forgot 
So  soon. 

'Twas  night — but  when  the  blushing  Morn 
Looked  forth  from  out  the  portals  of  the  East, 
And  saw  not  May,  though  lovelier  than  May, 
Her  sweet  young  sister,  reigned — in  somber  clouds 
She  pensive  vailed  her  radiant  face,  and  wept. 


112  THE   DEATH    OF   MAY. 

Then  May  was  glad,  and  rose  on  glowing  plumes 
And  rippling  robes,  far  into  the  bright  realm 
Appointed  for  the  pure  and  early  dead. 

O,  what  if  noisy  Fame  ignore  thy  fall, 
And  pass  thee  in  forgetfulness  or  mirth  ? 
Still  in  the  memory  of  some  dear  friend 
The  fragrance  of  thy  better  self  shall  live, 
And  be  an  holier  sorrow  for  thy  loss ! 


COMPLIMENT.  113 


COMPLIMENT. 

CLEVERLY  done,  it  is  certain ! 

And  nobody  can  complain. 
There  was  something  about  old  friendship, 

And  hopes  to  meet  often  again. 

When  one  is  to  die,  it  is  pleasant 
To  have  the  knife  bright  and  keen ; 

This  awkward  hacking  is  horrid — 
"Work  not  fit  to  be  seen. 

Here  comes  your  friend,  my  darling — 

A  compliment  to  your  art ! 
Who  would  think,  to  see  you  together, 

You  had  stabbed  him  to  the  heart ! 


8 


114  DRIFTING   AWAY. 


DRIFTING    AWAY. 

As  one  whom  seaward  winds  beat  from  the  shore, 
Sees  all  the  land  go  from  him  out  of  sight, 
And  waits  with  doubtful  heart  the  stooping  night, 

In  some  frail  shallop  without  sail  or  oar, 
Drifting  away ! 

I  ride  forlorn  upon  the  sea  of  life, 

Far  out  and  farther  unto  unknown  deeps, 
Down  the  dark  gulfs  and  up  the  dizzy  steeps, 

Whirled  in  the  tumult  of  the  ocean  strife, 
Drifting  away ! 

Like  faint,  faint  lights,  I  see  my  old  beliefs 
Fade  from  me  one  by  one,  and  shine  no  more ; 
Old  loves,  old  hopes  lie  dead  upon  the  shore, 

Wept  all  about  by  ghosts  of  childhood  griefs, 
Drifting  away ! 

O  never  more  the  happy  land  shall  glow, 

With  the  fair  light  of  morning  on  mine  eyes ; 
Upon  its  loftiest  peak  the  sunset  dies, 

And  night  is  in  the  peaceful  vales  below, 
Drifting  away ! 


DRIFTING   AWAY.  115 

I  rise  and  stretch  my  longing  arms  in  vain, 
And  fold  in  void  embraces  on  my  breast 
The  nothing  claspt,  and  with  dim  fears  opprest, 

Cry  to  the  shores  I  shall  not  see  again, 
Drifting  away ! 


116  DEAD. 


DEAD. 

i. 
SOMETHING  lies  in  the  room 

Over  against  my  own ; 
The  windows  are  lit  with  a  ghastly  bloom 

Of  candles,  burning  alone — 
Untrimmed,  and  all  aflare 
In  the  ghastly  silence  there ! 

ii. 

People  go  by  the  door, 

Tiptoe,  holding  their  breath, 
And  hush  the  talk  that  they  held  before, 

Lest  they  should  waken  Death, 
That  is  awake  all  night 
There  in  the  candlelight ! 

in. 

The  cat  upon  the  stairs 

"Watches  with  flamy  eye 
For  the  sleepy  one  who  shall  unawares 

Let  her  go  stealing  by. 
She  softly,  softly  purrs, 
And  claws  at  the  banisters. 


DEAD.  117 

IV. 

The  bird  from  out  its  dream 

Breaks  with  a  sudden  song, 
That  stabs  the  sense  like  a  sudden  scream ; 

The  hound  the  whole  night  long 
Howls  to  the  moonless  sky, 
So  far,  and  starry,  and  high. 


118  SPRING. 


SPRING. 

I  FEEL  thy  coming  in  the  balmy  air, 

That  woos  the  landscape  from  its  winter-dream 
Of  leafless  grove,  bleak  field,  and  frozen  stream, 

And  in  the  warmth  and  freshness  everywhere. 

Oh,  Earth  is  passing  beautiful  and  fair ! 

Birds,  trees,  and  flowers — the  morning's  golden  beam, 
Noon's  glow,  and  sunset's  mellow  glory,  seem 

The  bright  belongings  of  some  happier  sphere ! 

And  lured  by  these,  and  loathing  the  mean  fame 
That  man  doth  yield  to  long,  unworthy  strife, 

The  heart  turns  heavenward  with  a  holier  aim, 
Soars  every  thought,  and  every  sense  grows  rife, 

Till  all  the  world  and  all  its  hopes  look  tame, 
And  the  pent  soul  longs  for  a  larger  life. 


THE    CAGED   ROBIN.  119 


THE    CAGED   ROBIN. 

On,  like  the  laughter  of  a  broken  heart 

That  tells  of  sorrow  in  its  hollow  ring, 
Yet  strives  to  hide  beneath  a  show  of  art 

The  joyless  spirit's  silent  cankering — 

Seems  the  sweet  strain  thou  art  caroling. 
Poor  patient  Robin,  in  thy  prison  home — 

Shut  from  the  opening  beauties  of  the  spring 
In  the  thick,  somber  silence  of  this  room, 
Where  scarce  through  curtained  glass  a  sickly  light  can 
come. 

Erst  when  the  day  in  peaceful  panoply, 

With  crimson  banners  decked  the  glowing  east, 
Thy  matin  gushed  in  joyous  notes  and  free, 

And  only  with  the  morning's  freshness  ceased. 

So  when  the  sunset  reddened  all  the  west, 
Thy  vesper  rose,  and  with  its  beauty  died, 

And  the  sad  whippowil  beguiled  the  rest. 
But  here  alike  are  morn  and  eventide, 
The  sunset's  purple  glory  and  Aurora's  pride  ! 


120  THE    CAGED    ROBIN. 

Erewhile  I  marked  thee  on  thy  bounding  wing, 
In  aerial  gambols  whirling  through  the  sky, 

Stooping,  anon,  to  taste  the  little  spring, 
That,  pebbly-channeled,  leapt  translucently 
Down  a  green  hill-side — sparkling  in  its  glee. 

In  crystal  vase  thy  still  warm  drink  now  stands, 
Its  unrefreshing  moisture  mocking  thee  ! 

Dost  loathe  the  bounty  of  thy  captor's  hands, 

And  long  for  that  bright  spring? — its  silver  shifting  sands? 

Can  this  carved  roof  and  colonnaded  hall 

Vie  with  the  blue  sky  and  wild-wood  grove, 
Where  now  unanswered  sounds  the  tender  call 

Of  thy  lone  partner,  plaining  for  her  love  ? 

What  though  thy  cage  be  hung  with  fruits  above  ? 
Its  wires  be  hid  in  freshly-gathered  flowers  — 

Sweeter  the  fruits  that  thou  mightst  pluck,  and  rove 
Through  woods  a-bloom,  and  fair,  vine-clambered  bowers, 
The  while  shaking  bright  dew  from  clustering  leaves  in 
showers. 

0  !  sing  no  more,  but  fold  thy  useless  wings, 
And  drop  thy  head  upon  thy  bosom  low — 

Thou  art  too  like  the  grief-worn  soul  that  flings 
A  vail  of  gladsomeness  upon  its  woe, 
And  mocks  with  gayety  its  bitterest  throe ! 

0  !  hush  the  song  now  rising  in  thy  throat ! 
Bid  the  sweet  lay  be  still — or  rough  its  flow, 

Till  sorrow  speaks  in  every  lilting  note, 

And  sob-like  strains  along  the  carved  arches  float ! 


THE    DOUBT.  121 


THE   DOUBT. 

SHE  sits  beside  the  low  window, 
In  the  pleasant  evening-time, 

With  her  face  turned  to  the  sunset, 
Reading  a  book  of  rhyme. 

And  the  wine-light  of  the  sunset, 
Stol'n  into  the  dainty  nook, 

Where  she  sits  in  her  sacred  beauty, 
Lies  crimson  on  the  book. 

O  beautiful  eyes  so  tender, 

Brown  eyes  so  tender  and  dear, 

Did  you  leave  your  reading  a  moment, 
Just  now,  as  I  passed  near? 

Maybe,  'tis  the  sunset  flushes 
Her  features,  so  lily-pale — 

Maybe,  'tis  the  lover's  passion, 
She  reads  of  in  the  tale. 

O  darling,  and  darling,  and  darling, 
If  I  dared  to  trust  my  thought ; 

If  I  dared  to  believe  what  I  must  not, 
Believe  what  no  one  ought — 


122  THE    THORN. 

We  would  read  together  the  poem 
Of  the  Love  that  never  died, 

The  passionate,  world-old  story 
Come  true,  and  glorified. 


THE    THORN. 

"  EVERY  Rose,  you  sang,  has  its  Thorn, 

But  this  has  none,  I  know." 
She  clasped  my  rival's  Rose 
Over  her  breast  of  snow. 

I  bowed  to  hide  my  pain, 

"With  a  man's  unskillful  art, — 

I  moved  my  lips,  and  could  not  say 
The  Thorn  was  in  my  heart ! 


DROWNED.  123 


DROWNED. 

LIKE  a  bird  of  evil  presage, 

To  the  lonely  house  on  the  shore, 

Came  the  wind  with  a  tale  of  shipwreck, 
And  shrieked  at  the  closed  door. 

And  flapped  its  wing  in  the  gables, 
And  shouted  the  well-known  names, 

And  buffeted  the  windows, 

Afeard  in  their  shuddering  frames. 

It  was  night,  and  it  is  morning — 

The  summer  sun  is  bland, 
The  white-cap  waves  come  rocking,  rocking, 

In  to  the  summer  land. 

The  white-cap  waves  come  rocking,  rocking, 

In  the  sun  so  soft  and  bright, 
And  toss  and  play  with  the  dead  man, 

Drowned  in  the  storm  last  night. 


124  UNDER   THE   LOCUSTS. 


UNDER    THE   LOCUSTS. 

O  LISTEN  to  the  bees, 

Weaving  their  honeyed  harmonies, 

In  the  white  bloom  of  the  locust-trees ! 

0  faint,  and  soft,  and  slow, 

Come  the  delicious  winds  that  blow 
Through  the  sweet  drifts  of  Summer  snow ! 

1  sit  with  closed  eyes : 
Dimly  the  golden  dreams  arise, 
All  my  soul  in  warm  languor  lies. 

O  swoon,  enchanted  brain ! 

Heart,  why  shouldst  thou  ever  beat  again  ? 

Death  is  delight,  and  life  is  pain. 


MIDNIGHT   RAIN.  125 


MIDNIGHT    RAIN. 

AT  twilight  Auster,  like  a  gossip,  came 
And  told  the  secret  to  the  listening  leaves : 
And  they  did  whisper  it  among  themselves, 
The  while  that  dark  clouds,  purpling  in  the  west, 
Heaved  up  and  blotted  out  the  sunset's  glory : 
The  while  that  lightnings  darted  from  the  folds 
Of  the  thick  mass,  and  sprang  in  fiery  shapes 
Like  weird,  fantastic  trees  and  flowers,  and  withered : 
The  while  the  storm-sprite,  mounting  on  damp  plumes, 
Brushed,  as  he  passed,  the  cresset  stars,  and  quenched : 
The  while  that  Luna  hid  behind  the  dusk ; 
But,  as  night  grew  apace,  the  leaves  grew  still, 
And  hung  in  mute  expectance  of  the  rain. 

And  now  the  thunder,  that  had  murmured  long 
Among  the  western  clouds,  rose  as  they  rose, 
And  shook  the  fabric  of  the  night.     Slow  rolled 
Along  the  vault,  and  nearing  earth,  grew  loud, 
And  burst  with  iron  clangor  on  the  hills. 
Frequent  and  ghast  the  lurid  lightnings  shone 
With  wide-pervading  glow. 


126  MIDNIGHT   RAIN. 

At  last,  some  drops, 

Shaken  from  out  the  sky,  fell  down  to  earth ; 
Then  others  came,  and  following  fast  and  many, 
The  sweet-voiced,  sibilant-show'ring  gushes  fell. 
There  had  long  time  been  drouth,  and  grateful  fields 
Drank  the  pure  offering  of  the  teeming  clouds 
With  eager  joy.     The  forest-trees,  by  heat 
Untimely  tinted  with  the  hues  of  autumn, 
Held  out  their  stiff  leaves,  and  their  branches  waved, 
And  crooned  a  dreamy  measure  to  the  wind. 
The  rills  that  arteried  the  valley-sides, 
Swelled  and  ran  down,  and  mingled  in  the  stream 
That  flowed  beneath.     Flowers  that  had  drooped, 
Lifted  themselves  and  gave  their  chalices 
For  the  soft  rain  to  brim.     Brute-life  partook 
The  common  joy ;  and  men  did  sweetly  sleep. 

As,  when  a  fever  long  hath  burned  the  frame, 
Haply  comes  health,  and  bathes  the  aching  brow 
With  dewy  drops :  relax  the  tensioned  nerves, 
The  palms  grow  moist,  the  temples  throb  no  more, 
A  pleasing  languor  spreads  throughout  the  soul ;  — 
So,  welcome  to  the  parched  earth,  came  the  rain ! 
And  when  the  storm  had  passed,  and  far  away 
The  thunder  faintly  murmured,  slumber  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  slept  the  gentle  sleep 
That  health  doth  ever  bring. 


THE    BIRD.  127 


THE    BIRD. 

HER  bird  in  liis  cage  sang  songs 

Of  summer-time  and  love : 
The  snow  was  white  on  the  winter  fields, 

The  sky  was  dark  above. 

The  tears  came  into  the  eyes 

Of  the  lady  so  fair  and  wan  — 
"O  bird,"  she  sobbed,  "sing  another  song! 
The  summer-time  is  gone. 

"  The  snow  is  white  on  my  winter-heart, 

And  heaven  is  dark  above : 
My  heart  will  break  if  you  sing  to  me 
Of  summer-time  and  love." 


128  THE    FISHER-MAIDEN. 


THE   FISHER-MAIDEN 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF   HEINE. 


BEAUTIFUL  fisher-maiden, 
Drive  thy  light  boat  to  land — 

Come  to  me,  and  sit  down  beside  me ; 
"We  whisper,  hand  in  hand. 

Kest  on  my  heart  thy  head,  love, 
Nor  tremble  for  fear  of  me, — 

Thou  trustest  thyself  without  trembling 
Still  to  the  stormy  sea ! 

My  heart  is  like  the  sea, — 
Has  storm,  and  ebb,  and  flow, 

And  many  a  beautiful  pearl  sleeps 
In  its  calm  depths  below. 


WORDS    OF    WARNING.  120 


WORDS    OF   WARNING. 


LIFE'S  made  up  of  partings  and  meetings 

At  the  best ! 
Sorrowful  farewells  and  joyous  greetings — 

Hands  are  ever  shaken,  lips  are  pressed ! 

Wherefore,  though  the  frown  of  heaven  darken 

Love's  blue  sky, 
And  thy  soul  in  its  forlornness  hearken 

To  thy  darling's  tremulous  good-bye, 

Take  thou  heart,  for  all  the  world  hath  kindred 

To  thy  woe ; 
Everywhere  are  longing  spirits  hindered 

By  the  cruel  fate  that  bids  thee  go ! 

Take  thou  heart — perchance  the  paths  now  parting 

Shall  be  joined, 
And  the  goal  shall  be  the  point  of  starting, 

And  the  soul  forgets  that  it  hath  pined. 

9 


130  WORDS   OP   WARNING. 

Yet — yet,  linger  on  those  lips  awhile ; 

Time  may  come 
They  shall  wear  for  thee  no  loving  smile, 

And  to  all  thy  tender  words  be  dumb. 

Look  into  those  tearful  eyes  that  mirror 

Lore  again ; 
Clasp  her  fair  form  near  and  nearer, 

They  may  turn  from  thee  in  cold  disdain. 


THE    STRAW   HAT.  131 


THE    STRAW   HAT. 

A  PICTURE  AT  TIIE  DOCTOR'S. 

THE  sweet  shade  falls  athwart  her  face, 
And  leaves  half  shadow  and  half  light — 

Dimples  and  lips  in  open  day, 

And  dreamy  brows  and  eyes  in  night. 

So  low  the  languid  eyelids  fall, 
They  rest  their  silk  upon  her  cheek, 

And  give  delicious  laziness 

To  glances  arch  and  cunning  meek. 

It  cannot  frown,  the  placid  brow ! 

Hidden  in  rare  obscurity ; 
They  cannot  hate,  the  indolent  eyes ! 

The  sins  they  do  not  strive  to  see. 

And  in  the  sunshine  of  her  cheeks, 
The  wanton  dimples  are  at  play, 

So  frolic-earnest  in  their  sport, 
They  do  not  care  to  look  away. 

And  oh,  if  Love,  kiss-winged,  should  come, 
And  light  on  such  a  rose  as  this, 

Could  brow,  or  eye,  or  dimples  blame 
Such  lips  for  giving  back  a  kiss  ? 


132  "  SIR    PHILIP    SYDNEY." 


"SIR   PHILIP    SYDNEY." 

A  PET   DOVE,    WHICH   FELL  A   PUET  UNTO   THE   RAVENING   CAT. 

(For  his  Mistress.) 

IN   MEMORIAM. 

ERST  mirror  of  the  stateliest  chivalry, 

And  not  misnamed  for  that  most  gentle  knight, 

In  whom  sweet  love  made  shining  deeds  more  bright, 

And  gracious  even  the  fault  of  vanity — 

Thee  in  the  groves  of  heaven  flying  free, 
Flashing  thy  silver  wings  in  that  rare  light, 
Whereof  to  think  doth  hurt  our  mortal  sight — 

Thee,  glorified  through  death ;    I  weep  not  thee  ! 

But  rather  deem,  thou  stooping  from  on  high, 
Hauntest  my  heart,  the  spirit  of  a  dove, — 

Oh  !  guard  it  with  a  loving  jealousy, 

That  none  but  gentle  thoughts  therein  may  move, 

Ah !  nestle  there,  and  keep  me  ever  nigh — 

Thou  beauteous  word  of  God  for  Peace  and  Love ! 


/    L 


131 


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